


If Vidocq Could See Us Now

by leahxleah



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Descriptions of murder, F/M, Homicide, M/M, Murder, Overcome addiction, Poison, Police AU, mentions of drug addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-07 02:56:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leahxleah/pseuds/leahxleah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is one of the best detectives in Homicide; unfortunately, he can't keep a partner for long. Getting assigned Grantaire--the Narcotics officer freshly released from rehab--seems like a punishment, but it may be a blessing in disguise.</p><p>Meanwhile, a killer pursues the wealthy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Before we begin, I'd like to say thanks to Wikipedia, for providing me vague information on the French Policing system.  
> For anyone with a sensitive stomach, I do describe a body. In fact, there will be a few bodies. I've tried to make it as gore free as possible, but it is a cop AU, and I just couldn't picture Enjolras in any division but Homicide. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Chapter One

It’s no surprise to anyone that Enjolras is completely incapable of keeping a partner, himself included. Throughout his childhood he alienated most of the children he met when he buried himself in layers of literature and philosophy, and his unique perspective on politics and justice had the same effect in the police training program he attended after getting a pre-law degree. He had some friends—Combeferre, who was equal parts patient and sarcastic, along with Courfeyrac, who had taken a long look at his near opposite with similar ideals and patted him on the back. There was Feuilly, with whom Enjolras shared a mutual, platonic adoration, and Joly. Partners, however, were impossible.

 

For a brief period of time, his boss, Cosette Fauchelevent, had paired him with a wide variety of people, bouncing him around different divisions as she went.  
When he was with traffic, she had put him with Bahorel, which had disastrous results. The two remained gruff acquaintances, however.

 

When Enjolras was with missing persons, he was paired first with Jehan, who was far too compassionate for Enjolras’ blunt style of interviewing. They were still friends, but Cosette was aware she had made a gamble on that one. Secondly, she had put him with Feuilly, but they had become distracted with political conversations and had gone off topic too regularly to get work done.  
When he was with robbery and theft, she had paired him with Bossuet. For a while, she had thought it was going quite well, until Bossuet politely informed her he had a medical note requesting that he switch partners. She had thought he had been kidding, but when it was clear that it had been written by someone other than Joly, she let him switch. 

 

Enjolras found his niche in homicide, where corpses rarely required shared political opinions or basic tact. The problem there had been finding him a partner. Once he made Courfeyrac cry she switched him to Eponine, assuming her strong will could handle Enjolras’ personality. After finding herself ordering a new chair and finding herself worried for the safety of the suspects, Cosette turned to Combeferre, doing her best not to plead.

The answer had been clear, “No.”

“No?”

“I value him as a friend, Mlle. Fauchelevent. In fact, I consider him my best friend, and I’m not willing to sacrifice that friendship for the sake of ‘no one else can handle him’.”

“You’ve worked together before, Combeferre,” Cosette pleaded.

“Not as partners, but on joint operations.”

Cosette sat down behind her desk, winding her hands into her hair. Combeferre patted her lightly on the back, then took a seat across from her, adjusting his glasses. She let out a deep groan of a woman who was overworked and underpaid for putting up with difficult employees, and then rose slightly, looking up at Combeferre with bright blue eyes. 

“I’m not firing him. No one closes cases like Enjolras.”

“I’m aware,” said Combeferre. “He’s very…driven. He sees only black and white in terms of right and wrong, which doesn’t necessarily coincide with the law, all the time. Makes it hard to put him with anyone—but this isn’t the first time you’ve dealt with this. What else is bothering you?”

“I’m not supposed to talk about it—“

“—I have a degree in psychology.”

“Grantaire,” Cosette sighed, leaning back against her chair, a blonde curl escaping her bun. 

“Isn’t he in rehab?”

“Not anymore. Passed with flying colours, but you know the man. He was trained for undercover, he’s a talented enough actor to put anyone of those plastic Americans to shame.”

“Oh,” Combeferre replied. “Are you putting him back with Narcotics?”

“It would make sense, but he’s burnt out. Says he wants to go back undercover, but there’s no way his body can handle that much abuse, not for the fifth time around. I tried to talk him into taking a desk job, but he threatened to quit,” she stated. “Needs the excitement, apparently.”

Combeferre opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, there was a quiet knock at the door. “Come in!” Cosette called, and Marius stumbled in, coffee on a cardboard tray in hand. A slight smile played on his lips, but he frowned when he saw Combeferre. “Oh, hey Pontmercy. How’s the suspect in interrogation room 7?”

“She keeps switching between Mandarin, Cantonese and Thai, as if I can’t tell the difference,” Marius smiled broadly again, passing Cosette the coffee and then backing out of the room. “Have a good day!” the translator said, closing the door behind him.

“Poor soul,” Combeferre murmured. 

“What was that?” Cosette asked.

“Nothing. Anyway, have you considered switching Grantaire to something more laid back, but still exciting? Missing Persons can be stressful, so maybe Homicide? No pressure, but with excitement.”

“There’s no openings in homicide.”

“You say that, and yet Enjolras needs a partner.”

Cosette fell silent, her jaw dropping incredulously. “You want me to pair a recovering addict with Enjolras? Jesus, it might be better to put him with White Collar crimes—“

“—no, think this through. I remember the two of them from the Academy—they argued, but it was productive. They’ll work well.”

“Neither of them follows the rules—“

“—Enjolras is a robot when it comes to people, and Grantaire over empathises to the point that he becomes cynical. Grantaire breaks procedure, Enjolras follows it, whereas Enjolras will swear at a judge and Grantaire charms them.”

“Enjolras won’t be able to help Grantaire though. He’s not compassionate enough. And Grantaire won’t be able to keep Enjolras calm. He’ll provoke him for the hell of it.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Cosette repeated. “I don’t have a lot of other options, do I?”

Combeferre shrugged, standing up and pushing his chair in politely, adjusting his holster before he pulled his suit jacket back on. He was glad the precinct was well air-conditioned, as the heat of summer seemed to permeate every inch of the world outside. Returning to his desk, he propped his feet up and tried not to feel smug when Eponine asked him how he got out of being stuck with Enjolras as a partner.

“Five bucks says he told her he was in love with Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said, pulling out his wallet. 

Combeferre smiled benignly. “I’d tell you, but I already know you have half the precinct in on a bet about my sexuality, and I wouldn’t want you to lose your money. Besides, you’ll find out in, oh, maybe a week.”

“About your sexuality?”

“No, Enjolras.”

“Enjolras’ sexuality?” Courfeyrac asked.

“Liberty,” Enjolras remarked, standing behind Courfeyrac, coffee cup in hand. His expression was stony, and Courfeyrac’s flipped to one of absolute terror. Courfeyrac half-slid away back to his desk, his eyes glued to Combeferre and his fingers silently communicating the fear that ran through his veins.

“Really, Enj? Last week it was Patria,” Combeferre said, raising an eyebrow coolly. 

“Why are they bringing another desk into homicide?” he asked Combeferre.

“Why do you think I know?”

“Not only do I think you know, I think you caused it.”

Eponine smiled, sitting on the edge of Combeferre’s desk, crossing her legs. “No, don’t say anything Combeferre. I like to see him look confused. No one tell him anything. There needs to be a mystery he can’t solve.”

“I’m getting a new partner, obviously,” Enjolras said. “I just don’t know who.”

“You’re a detective,” Eponine said, arching an eyebrow, and Combeferre found himself appreciating every hair that seemed to stay in that perfect shape. This was a very difficult thing to do when she was wearing skin-tight jeans and a loose, white shirt that suggested she had spent the night at someone else’s house, but he was well aware it was not his place to say anything. “Detect.”

Enjolras retreated to his own desk, a frown deeply set into his face. Eponine patted Combeferre affectionately on the shoulder,  
and he smiled softly up at her.  
“You know, you’re the only man who I know that I’ve never seen wear black. Not even your socks, or your shoes.”

“I’m a homicide detective, not a mortician,” he replied. “I don’t think it should be a staple clothing item.” Eponine returned the smile, but left without any form of goodbye, presumably in search of lunch. 

Courfeyrac whistled. “Buddy, you got it bad.”

“What does he have?” Enjolras asked.

“Look at the stars in his eyes,” Courfeyrac said. “The way his skin glowed just then, and now looks so grey in comparison. He looks tired, too. All the symptoms.”

“Does he have the flu?” Enjolras asked, his eyebrows scrunched together. 

“Clueless,” Combeferre said, crossing his arms over his chest and smiling to himself, wondering whether his estimate of a week would be accurate. 

OoOoO  
“Six and a half days, to be accurate,” Combeferre muttered, mentally recording it in the back of his head as the jean-clad, unshaven figure stumbled into the precinct. At first, it was hard to recognise Grantaire without the faint smirk that traced his lips, but he wore the distinctive beanie Combeferre had come to recognise from when they were at the Academy. There was nothing about him that wasn’t dishevelled, from the pressed shirt hidden under his hoodie to the dark curls that weren’t hidden. He wore faint dark circles under his eyes, but other than that Combeferre thought he seemed to be in fairly good condition for someone recovering from an undercover drug smuggling operation. 

Grantaire wandered towards the coffee machine first, a smile pricking his lips when he saw it as if he had come across an old friend, and then glancing around the office when he realised people were staring at him. He turned his back to them pouring himself a cup of coffee into one of the paper cups Enjolras had spent weeks begrudging and complaining about, and then leaned against a wall, returning the glances he had been fixed with.

He took a sip of coffee, wrinkled his face in disgust, then put it aside. “I see that hasn’t improved,” he remarked, easing some of the tension. Most people still regarded him with a sense of awe, however. Combeferre leaned against the doorframe he stood by, watching the situation unfold from a distance. “What do you expect, a speech?” he asked. “Go back to work, people are dying.” 

Combeferre felt Enjolras flatten behind him, his hand brushing up against Combeferre’s back. Rolling his eyes, Combeferre stepped to the side, making sure Enjolras was clearly visible. Enjolras coughed awkwardly, then took two steps back.

“I—uh—assume he’s recovered?” he asked, his arms folded over his chest. 

“It would seem that way,” Combeferre replied.

“He shouldn’t go back to work so soon. Narcotics is too stressful, Fauchelevent shouldn’t let him—“ Courfeyrac began, but was silenced when Grantaire strode past them into Cosette’s office. Enjolras made himself invisible, sitting down at his own desk again, ducking his head and continuing with what resembled paperwork, although Combeferre could easily see half the sheet had been left empty.

Everyone tentatively resumed work, although Combeferre found himself unable to focus with Courfeyrac jittering next to him and Enjolras brooding across from them, and he could feel Eponine’s concern over the horizon. He sighed, regarding his watch carefully and waiting. 

There was two minutes of silence from the office, one minute of quiet murmuring, another minute of silence, and then heated dialogue. Marius popped his head into Homicide, doing his best to appear to have something else to do, but Combeferre thought it was quite clear he was concerned for Cosette. Eponine followed him, and Combeferre glanced away as she peered over Pontmercy’s shoulder.

Grantaire burst out of the office, nearly sending Eponine and Marius sprawling, striding towards Homicide with a dark expression on his face. Enjolras briefly adopted a deer in the headlights expression before opting back to his carefully neutral one, returning to his statuesque stoicism. Grantaire stopped when he saw Enjolras, his features softening slightly, and Combeferre felt his heart leap in joy. 

“Hey, Apollo,” he said, and there was no anger or melancholy in his tone. His voice was still gruff, but the blue in his eyes reflected the light more than they had before. His lips quirked up into his signature smirk, and a weight of burden had been lifted off of Combeferre. “Made your way up to Homicide, huh?”

“You already knew that,” Enjolras said bluntly, and Combeferre wants to smash his forehead into his desk. Politely, of course. 

“Niceties,” Grantaire shrugged. “But you’re bad at those, apparently, because no one wants to be your partner.”

“I don’t want a partner.”

“They are mandated.”

“Your point?”

Grantaire grimaced. “They gave you me.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Silence filled the room, and Combeferre shifted uncomfortably, doing his best not to cough to break the tension. Courfeyrac made no pretense, and was watching the entire interaction raptly, his eyes focused on their dialogue. 

Enjolras swallowed, then pointed to the empty desk next to him. “You can have that one.”

“Why thank you, gracious Orestes.”

“Lot of Greek classics in rehab?”

“Lot of sticks up your ass?”

“My ass is none of your business.”

“And rehab isn’t any of yours,” Grantaire stated, sitting in the old chair provided for him, pulling out several of the drawers in the equally archaic desk. The bottom right one stuck, and Grantaire kicked at it once, hoping to pry it open.

“Uh, the gum guy had that desk last,” Marius peeped up. “Would you like me to get you a letter opener?”

“Yeah, I’d appreciate that,” Grantaire replied, and Marius darted off. Resolutely, Grantaire began pulling out the other drawers, rooting around for any contents—he pulled out a paperclip in the top right one, and an empty stapler on the other side. He put them on top of his desk and then dropped to his knees on the floor, rooting underneath. 

Enjolras sighed, his eyes darting over from time to time. He tried his best to focus on his paperwork, but the rustling was distinct and Grantaire let out an occasional grunt or murmur in surprise. He clenched his jaw, determined to focus, clutching his pen. 

“Oh!” Grantaire exclaimed.

The pen snapped in half in Enjolras’ hand, ink spilling all over his hand. He hissed, grabbing a handful of tissues and mopping up the mess, throwing it in the trash next to his desk.

“Whatever you are doing, stop,” Enjolras growled. “I need to focus.”

Grantaire ducked his head out from under the desk, grinning from ear to ear. In his hands were three magazines, each with  
explicit covers.

“The desk was made in the 80’s,” he explained to Enjolras. “Figured it’s been passed off a few times, and look! I found porn! Man, this stuff is borderline vintage.”

“Seriously?” Courfeyrac replied, sitting up abruptly. 

“Congratulations, you found someone’s thirty year old spunk,” Enjolras stated, scowling. 

With that, Marius returned, carrying both a letter opener and a desktop light, much to Grantaire’s pleasure. “Man, I love this guy—what’s your name? Division?” he asked when Marius passed him the light and letter opener.

“I don’t have a division, I’m a translator. And I’m Marius,” he added, beaming at Grantaire, then frowning abruptly. “Is that 80’s porn?”

“See, Apollo? Some people can appreciate art!’

“Be his partner, then,” Enjolras replied bluntly, not looking up. “And like I told you countless times before, don’t call me that.”

“You’ve told me sixty seven times,” Grantaire replied. “If that’s countless—“

Enjolras looked up. “—I don’t count our interactions—“

“—disappointing—“ Grantaire replied snidely.

“—my world does not revolve around you—“

“—you were the one who assumed I knew all about your career—“

“—you’ve counted the number of times I’ve told you not to call me Apollo!”

“Case!” Cosette called out. “Enjolras, Grantaire, for the sake of everyone, just go.”

Enjolras stood, wiping his hand with a sort of finality, then stacking and stapling his papers before scowling at Grantaire. Cosette looked down at the porn on Grantaire’s desk, sighed dramatically and scooped it into the trash, much to Courfeyrac’s protest and Marius’ guilty look. Grantaire grumbled at her.

“Bank on the East side. Get going,” Cosette instructed, and Grantaire took off his hoodie, leaving it draped over the back of his chair. 

Once the two of them had left the room, Cosette whirled around to face Combeferre. “This better work.”

Combeferre smiled slightly, and Eponine, Marius and Courfeyrac turned to gape at him. 

“You sneaky bastard,” Courfeyrac stated as Cosette returned to her office. “You know they hate each other! Well, Enjolras hates R, at least.”

“Enjolras is my best friend,” Combeferre said. “Just…trust me, okay? It’ll work.”

OoOoO

 

“You aren’t driving,” Enjolras said clearly as Grantaire approached the side of the car, and he groaned, going around to the side and slipping into the passenger’s side. 

Enjolras climbed in after him, sliding the key into the ignition and adjusting the mirror. A small French flag was draped beneath the rear-view mirror, and Grantaire snickered, reaching for it. Enjolras batted his hand away quickly, and was distracted for a moment by the thick scarring on R’s hand. Grantaire noticed the direction of his stare and turned his head downwards, then raised his hands to the mid-afternoon light that shone in through the windshield. It became quickly apparent that his hands had been through several ordeals.

For a moment, Enjolras said nothing, strapping himself against the seat, chewing the inside of his lip as Grantaire did the same, then sliding into drive and pulling out from the car park. He waited for a block before asking, “Can you still paint?”

“Yeah, just skin damage.”

Enjolras was quiet again for a beat before throwing in, “Good. Do you even own an iron?”

“Didn’t need it for my cover,” Grantaire said, shrugging down at his shirt. “Looks okay to me, though.”

“Yeah, buy an iron.”

“Rude. Cosette said I didn’t have to impress dead people. I assumed that was why you’re here.”

“I’m here because it’s the most challenging place for me.”

“You never worked Narcotics,” Grantaire stated. “The people you deal with, they’re dead. Their suffering is over. You bring them ‘justice’ and console their families, and all is right with the world, minus that one person. In Narcotics you look at them. The people you are trying to protect are the criminals, and then who is at fault? An arrest changes nothing. I brought down one of the biggest drug smuggling rings this century has seen, and for what? Nothing. They just switched suppliers. No, Homicide is a walk in the park.”

“In principle. It’s different in practice,” Enjolras said. “I don’t put a value on human lives, even if the person who died was a hindrance to society. A life lost is a life lost. A crime has been committed.”

“Very—egalitarian of you. Complete bullshit, of course, but great in theory. If you start to see things like that, you’ll end up like Javert.”

“I am not—“ with that, Enjolras saw the crime scene tape outside a building and cut himself off, pulling over. “You know what? New rule. We are only going to talk about the case.”

“Okay,” Grantaire said, glancing hesitantly out the window at the yellow crime scene tape, attempting to peer through the thick crowd of people. Enjolras tapped him on the shoulder. 

“Come on,” he said, his lips close to Grantaire’s ear, much to Grantaire’s chagrin. 

Grantaire shifted further towards the door, waving off Enjolras, who scoffed and got out of the car, walking around to the other side. Angrily, he yanked open Grantaire’s door, eliciting a grin from the other man. 

“Such a gentleman!” Grantaire said, leaning forward as if to kiss Enjolras on the cheek, which made him pull back, an affronted look on his face. “Oh, grumpy.”

“You smell like whiskey.”

“That’s because I had some,” Grantaire stated. 

“You aren’t fit to work—“

“—the doctors disagree,” he finished, gesturing for Enjolras to lead the way through the crowd of people. Enjolras pulled out his badge and parted the crowd with it, while Grantaire lazily held up the badge hanging around his neck with an indifferent facial expression, only raising an eyebrow when they reached the yellow tape, taking in the body that was spread eagled across the sidewalk, covered neatly with a white sheet.

A man in a coroner’s uniform and a medical mask strapped across his face was waiting for them. Joly stood above the body, neatly making notes on a pad of paper, glancing up once at Enjolras with an indifferent expression, but did a double take when he saw Grantaire.

“Hey, R! I had no idea you were back!” Joly said, shielding his smile from the crowd with the pad of paper, reaching forward to pat Grantaire on the arm. “How are you doing?”

“He’s had whiskey,” Enjolras stated, scowling.

“Nothing new there, then,” Joly said jovially. “I had no idea Narcotics had anything to do with this case.”

“I’m Homicide now,” Grantaire said, obvious displeasure on his face. “What’s with the dead guy?”

“No, you’re supposed to say, ‘What have you got, Joly?’” Enjolras said. Grantaire took a step towards Enjolras, and the two of them stood inches apart, staring at each other intently. Both of them silently bristled, although there was a hint of a smile on the edges of Grantaire’s mouth.

“Well, uh, he is definitely deceased,” Joly said. “Caucasian male, around fifty six years of age, was walking out of the bank and he just collapsed, reportedly.”

Enjolras turned away from Grantaire, leaving his partner to stare at his ear. “Sounds like a heart attack.”

“The paramedics thought so too, but I when I got here to take a look,” Joly passed them each a medical mask and gestured for them to bend down. Enjolras and Grantaire held them up to their faces, Enjolras reaching for a pair of rubber gloves whereas Grantaire just watched Joly’s gloved fingers lift up the white plastic sheet.

The man underneath wore a nice suit and kept a fairly trim figure, although Grantaire decidedly did not take in the salt and pepper beard or the nice gold ring strapped to his finger. He was slightly taken aback by how dead the man really was—his skin had gone blue around the fingertips and his jaw was slack, his eyes open but somehow having had rolled up into the back of his head. Enjolras looked on, utterly indifferent as Grantaire shuffled back awkwardly, still crouching.

“Blue fingers,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras picked up the digits for himself, rolling them around in gloved hands. “Fuck, man, don’t do that. I get that you don’t exactly get a lot of dates but at least make a OK Cupid account before you start resorting to dead men.” 

“Hilarious,” Enjolras deadpanned.

“I don’t know, R, he does seem to have quite a bit of money,” Joly pointed out, picking up the wallet in the dead man’s right hand.

“Ah, a rich, dead capitalist. Definitely Enjolras’ type,” Grantaire said, although he gestured for the wallet. Joly held it back, pointing to the gloves, which Grantaire sighed and put on, snapping them like a surgeon and grinning. “We’re ready to begin the cavity search!” he declared, and Joly snorted. Grantaire attached the mask properly to his face, hooking the strings behind his ears and then thumbing through the contents. 

“Francois Abelard,” he read aloud, taking out the driver’s license from the clear pocket, then thumbing through the card slots. “One national debit card, the other an international one, and two credit cards. No health care indicators. And—woah, that is a lot of hundreds. Uh, twenty? Oh, weird, they’re wet.”

“Wet?” Enjolras asked, moving his search up the man’s arm. 

“Uh, yeah, more along the lines of damp. Makes sense though, it’s hot out and he’s in a three piece suit, I’d be sweaty too.”

“Blue this early on means poisoning, for sure,” Joly said. “I am fairly sure it isn’t airborne, since he was the only victim, but I’m not taking any chances. Anyway, the way he dropped was apparently very rigid.”

“Instant?”

“Yeah, no way in hell is that a heart attack. Or an overdose,” Grantaire tacked on. “No kids’ pictures, or anything wife related in his wallet. Wearing a blue tooth, expensive shoes—Francois was living the high life.”

“You are supposed to call them by their surnames,” Enjolras corrected. “This is Monsieur Abelard.”

“He’s dead, he doesn’t give a shit,” Grantaire said, leaning forward to pat him on the cheek. The man’s head rolled to the side, and a small amount of foam dripping out from his parted lips. Grantaire leaped back a meter, while Enjolras merely pursed his lips behind the mask, and Joly sighed, reaching for a Q-tip and an evidence vial.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

By three o’clock, seventeen witnesses had been interviewed outside the bank, security footage had been collected, statements had been taken from every present member of the bank, and the body was carted away to the precinct. Also by three o’clock, Grantaire had made four jokes about Enjolras manhandling the corpse, Enjolras had slightly offended twelve witnesses and intimidated two, and had scowled five times. Joly found himself content considering there was only one body he had to take care of.

Grantaire climbed into Enjolras’ car exhaustedly leaning against the window and doing his best not to fall asleep.

“You’d be awake if you were sober,” Enjolras commented.  
“I am sober, hence the reason I don’t want to be awake,” Grantaire returned. “If you want someone dead, poison is tricky. Hard to trace, sure, but to get the right dosage?” he yawned. “Usually people only resort to it if they are weaker than their victim.”

“You’re assuming it wasn’t just an accident.”

“You saw the footage. The guy flips through his money, checks his cell phone, walks through the door then gets pulled down like a magnet to a fridge. There’s no way that was an accident. He looked healthy coming in.”

“Looks are deceiving. His arm was hairless—hair loss is a classic poisoning symptom, suggesting it could be chronic,” Enjolras said, starting the car.

“Maybe he waxed.”

“He had a beard, wouldn’t waxing be hypocritical?”

“Ever heard of man-scaping?”

“I have, have you?” Enjolras asked, flicking his eyes over Grantaire, who whistled.

“Ooh, a dig from a statue to a mere hair covered mortal. One of us isn’t a virgin, however.”

“Protect your flower, R,” Enjolras returned sarcastically, turning a corner.

“I thought you were ace?” Grantaire asked, sitting up abruptly as Enjolras sped towards a speed bump with the intention of jostling R’s head. 

“Ace?”

“Asexual? No?”

“No. Furthermore, my sexuality is not your business. And if Courfeyrac asks—“

“—why would Courfeyrac ask?” Grantaire asked, laughing. “I haven’t hung out with him since the Academy, but back then it was all about some poet. I got the distinct impression he didn’t give a damn about anyone else romantically.”

“He’s slept with a wide variety of people since then.”

“Has he dated any of them?”

“Wait, why do you care?” Enjolras asked.

“Calm down, Apollo, my taste in partners—“

“—don’t use that term, I’m your partner—“

“—fine, lovers, does not extend to Courfeyrac. I’m depressingly selective,” Grantaire said, propping his elbow against the door, glancing out the window and taking in the hot world that spun outside of the air conditioned car. “That doesn’t mean I’m non-existent, like you.”

Enjolras sighed. “I guarantee you I am more selective than you, but that doesn’t mean I’m not into anyone.”

“Oh?”

“Drop it.”

“Are you—“

“—no—“

“—male, female or non-binary?” Grantaire asked, his eyebrows shooting up.

“None of your damn business.”

“Didn’t it work out?”

“Fuck off.”

“Never told them, did you?”

“It doesn’t impact you in any way, so there’s no need for you to know.”

“Unlike you, other people actually care what happens in others’ lives.”

“I only care if they are dead.”

“Save that phrase, I think it would be a great title for your autobiography,” Grantaire said, framing Enjolras’ face with his fingers. “No, scratch that, let’s not make it a book. Let’s go with a musical, featuring hit tracks like, ‘Don’t call me Apollo’ ‘Stop it’ ‘Be quiet R’ and my personal favourite, ‘I jack off to the French flag.”

“R, I swear to God—“

“—opening number—“

“—I am going to request a change—“

“—who will take you?” Grantaire asked, smirking. “I bet you miss Eponine right now, huh?”

“Not that desperate,” Enjolras said. “Let’s play a game, okay? It’s called, ‘the Silent Game.’”

“I’ll be as still and soundless as the graveyard that is your love life,” Grantaire said. He was quiet for ten seconds before a grin split his face in half. “Get it? It’s funny, because you were fondling the dead guy.”

“I punched a partner, once.”

“Congratulations on your successful initiation of human contact,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras reached forward, aggressively hitting buttons to turn on the radio. He quickly skipped over the country, pop and rock stations, settling on something   
alternative, and Grantaire smiled. “No classics on?”

“I was trying to be considerate,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire patted his leg, resulting in Enjolras keeping his eyes firmly locked on the road and his teeth grinding together. 

Within five minutes, Grantaire was rooting through the glove compartment, grinning when he found a box of unopened rubber gloves. “I take that comment about your love life back. You always carry protection.”

“Your jokes just keep getting better,” Enjolras said, shaking his head, his expression firmly neutral. “Pity no one can appreciate them.”

“I have a constant running laugh-track in my head.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep. It’s creepy at two a.m., though, and demeaning whenever I take a leak.”

The corner of Enjolras’ lip crept up minutely, and Grantaire counted it as a personal victory. 

OoOoO

“Are you sure this is your husband, Mrs. Abelard?” Joly asked patiently, Enjolras and Grantaire tucked beside him, with Enjolras’ eyes scouring her face tentatively and Grantaire’s focusing on her hands. 

“Yes, that’s Francois,” she said, and while the gaps in the foundation on her face suggested she had been crying at one point, she wasn’t right when she stared him in the face, although a muscle in her jaw quivered beneath her skin. Her ring draped loosely around her knuckle, her nails were clipped short, and blonde strands of hair fell over her face. They had been dyed within the last week and she had some work done on her face, but everything that had been done was almost too subtle to notice. Grantaire would not have suspected anything if not for the age he saw on her ID when she signed in.

“Thank you,” Joly said courteously.

“Would you mind telling us a little bit about your husband?” Grantaire asked, taking her by the elbow and gently steering her out of the autopsy room, taking her out into the hall. Enjolras followed him closely, pulling out his pen and notepad, giving Grantaire a skeptical look when he didn’t do the same.

“What would you like to know?”

“Did he have any health conditions you were aware of?”

“Asthma.”

“Anything that could make him drop dead dramatically?” Enjolras asked tonelessly, wincing when he felt Grantaire’s ankle wedge   
into his foot with purpose. 

She swallowed, her eyes welling up, but she rapidly blinked back the liquid. “Ah, no. He was always fairly healthy outside of that.”  
Enjolras jotted something down. 

“Did he seem at all different lately? Was he having issues with anyone?”

“No, and no. He was the same as ever.”

“Did he often open up to you if he had an issue?”

“Oh, I’d never hear the end of it,” she said, smiling sadly. “Why, do you think something happened to him?”

“Just ruling out all the possibilities,” Grantaire said. “Thank you for your time. You’ll be the first to know if we find anything.”

“Thank you,” she said to Grantaire, glaring slightly at Enjolras before she walked away, led by a younger Officer.

“I think she did it,” Enjolras said. “Think about it, who else would give a damn about this guy?”

“Her lover.”

“What?”

“See that ring? So loose it fell forward when she put her hands on the table. The guy is loaded, but can’t get her a ring that fits? No, she’s sleeping with someone else. I’m guessing a woman.”

“Why a woman?” 

“Someday, after many, many drinks, I will explain to you the art of relating fingernails to sexuality, but today is not that day.”

“I have short fingernails—“

“—I’m aware, but it translates differently from men to women.”

Enjolras paused, frowning first at Grantaire and then at the case. “If not the wife, then an accident. I mean, no one was around, he just died. You can’t measure the amount of time it takes for a poison to occur that accurately. And we need toxicology to prove it—“

“—procedure, procedure,” Grantaire waved him off. “Assume it was poison. Wouldn’t he have had symptoms?”

“If the wife is having an affair, she might not realise how sick he was,” he commented, raising an eyebrow. “Once we get the toxicology results, we can get a warrant to see his house.”

“The evidence might be gone by then. Screw that, we need a warrant now,” Grantaire said. “I have a judge in my pocket or two—“  
“—that goes against everything we stand for,” Enjolras said, his jaw clenching. 

“Everything you stand for,” Grantaire replied. “In the meantime, evidence could be destroyed, or Mrs. Abelard could take a swig of whatever knocked her husband off. Are you going to tell her not to touch anything, because we haven’t gotten the toxicology back?”

“There has to be rules and they have to be rigid so this,” Enjolras pulled his badge out, “doesn’t become overruled by this,” he tapped his holstered gun. 

“And there are exceptions for the greater good,” Grantaire said. “Let’s look out for the living, okay?” With that, he pulled out his cell phone, flipping through his contact.

“Stop,” Enjolras growled, reaching for the phone. Grantaire pulled it back, raising an eyebrow. 

“Handsy,” he remarked, stepping back and holding the phone up to his ear. 

Enjolras reached for it again. Grantaire stepped back, a movement Enjolras matched with a longer step forward, attempting to grab the phone again. Grantaire turned around, striding away. Enjolras huffed angrily, following Grantaire closely, lunging once he heard him say “Hello!”

Grantaire was sent sprawling forward, Enjolras’ hands around his neck and Enjolras straddling him from behind, and Grantaire had no time to think of the various situations this pose could mean something different in before he was throwing Enjolras off, scrambling for the phone that had skidded across the floor. 

Enjolras closely matched his speed, leaping up with the intention of bending down to grab it, but Grantaire kicked out his ankles, causing Enjolras to topple to the right while Grantaire rose to his feet. He neatly sidestepped Enjolras attempt at pulling a similar move, but before he could grab the phone Enjolras had kicked the phone further away, a defiant grin on his face. 

Grantaire had already broken into a sprint by the time Enjolras clambered to his feet, but Enjolras employed a similar tactic to before, only this time Grantaire landed on top of him. 

The patriot found himself pinned to the floor by Grantaire’s hips rubbing against his backside, and he was glad that the pain of the hard floor ramming into the other side of his pelvis was present. He shuffled faster, fighting against Grantaire’s hands hauling on his shoulders and reaching forward with equal vehemence. 

Enjolras, however, was not one to be easily defeated. Employing guerrilla warfare tactics, he bucked his hips up into Grantaire’s groin, a manic laugh escaping his throat as Grantaire hissed audibly and his hand wrapped around the phone.

He held it up to his ear, triumphant, only to hear—“Is anyone there?”

“Yeah. Who is this?”

“Uh, Pierre?”

“Pierre who? Who signs your paychecks?”

“I—uh—Pierre? I work at Pizza Pizza?” the young voice stated, more of a question than an answer. “Would you like to order anything?”

Enjolras pressed his face against the cool concrete floor, experiencing the entirely unique sensation of having the weight of a full grown, laughing adult male spread out on top of him. It would have been unpleasant if the laugh had not been particularly husky and filled with several snorts, Grantaire’s lips dipping down next to his ear. A second later, he identified the feeling next to the annoyance as happiness; he had missed the sound, and savoured the way it resounded in not just Grantaire’s chest, but his own.

Grantaire pulled the phone from Enjolras, still struggling to breathe. “Sorry ‘bout that, kid. We’ll take a Cheese crust pepperoni with mushrooms on one side. Can you deliver it to the twelfth precinct? Thanks.” He hung up with finality, ruffling Enjolras’ hair before climbing to his feet, grinning manically.

“Leave my hair out of this, you absolute bastard,” Enjolras said. “You did that on purpose.”

“Absolutely, I was hungry. There is no way I’d call my pocket judges on my cell-phone, in front of you,” Grantaire said, flicking Enjolras on the nose. Enjolras was reddening in front of him, and there was a distinct expression of displeasure on his face. 

“I tackled you.”

“I know, I was tackled.”

“You—you—you’re a bad partner,” Enjolras stammered, his tongue tying in his mouth, avoiding Grantaire’s eyes.

“You okay? Did you break anything?”

Enjolras was conflicted. On one hand, grappling on the floor had been a distinctly singular experience that he would revisit later that night, but on the other hand, he had thoroughly embarrassed himself. 

“You made me make a fool of myself.”

“Just your pride, then?”

“But you also got my pizza order right.”

“We got it as a group once, back at the Academy,” Grantaire shrugged.

“Do you have an eidetic memory? Photographic?”

“No,” was his only response, a small smile playing across his lips.

Enjolras sighed. “Sometimes I feel like there is some massive inside joke that everyone is in on besides me, and from time to time people crack it to me, expecting me to understand. I don’t. This is not my strong suite.”

“Because you’re socially robotic?”

“Because I don’t care,” Enjolras stated, and Grantaire grinned. 

“I’ll be sure to let the other members of ICAE know.”

“ICAE?”

“International Conspiracy Against Enjolras,” Grantaire replied. “Pizza?”

Within thirty minutes, there was a pizza box on Grantaire’s desk and both of their notes balancing on Enjolras, and in the silence of their eating, they got along. In fact, Enjolras found he enjoyed Grantaire’s company significantly more when the other had his mouth full and his eyes staring back at Enjolras, blue meeting blue as they both chewed angrily. Across from them, Combeferre was looking extremely self-satisfied.

Once he swallowed, Grantaire waited until Enjolras was mid-bite before talking. “Want to go to a bar?”

“Nugmph,” was his reply.

“Pub, then?”

“Aghlbs nugmph.”

“Are you straight?”

“Fudsqe you,” Enjolras said, swallowing once he passed the profanity. “Doesn’t impact you.”

“I have to figure out which section to put your Craigslist ad under,” Grantaire said. “I’m going to title it, ‘Revolutionary Searching for Patria.’”

“I have sexual preferences, I just don’t feel the need to tell the world about them,” Enjolras corrected, resuming the polite mauling of his pizza he was undergoing. Grantaire’s eating was significantly more aggressive, and he shut his eyes, clearly imagining.

“Poison,” Grantaire said, his eyes still shut, tipping his head up to the ceiling. Enjolras looked equally distracted, glancing down at the floor intently, then putting his pizza slice aside. He wiped his hands before he flipped through the notes the two of them had taken.

“Wait,” he froze, sitting up. “Who is this?”

He held up an illustration drawn on Grantaire’s note pad of a well-defined ass. Grantaire coughed. “The tricky thing is, the fastest way for him to die is to consume the poison. Assuming he was poisoned within the last fifteen minutes of his life, ten of which he spent thumbing through his wallet at the bank, then in the five before that he would have had to taken the poison.”

“He could have grabbed a coffee, a pastry, something off a food vendor’s cart, or he could have been doing nothing. Maybe he was immortalizing the ass of a passerby.”

Combeferre cracked up, and both Grantaire and Enjolras sent him dark looks across the bull-pen.

Enjolras scowled, turning back to going through his and Grantaire’s notes.

“Your handwriting is crap,” he noted. “That could be a description of the victim and the witnesses’ phone number, or it could be a poem and a fake number a girl gave you.”

“Unlikely.”

“Are you admitting you flirt on the job?”

“No, just saying it’s more likely to be a guy’s number.”

“Oh,” Enjolras said, putting down the notes and taking a long swig of water from the bottle he had bought at the vending machine. A smile was gradually stretching its way across Combeferre’s face, although he was fighting to keep his facial expression neutral and to look busy. “Apparently he clutched his throat and then keeled over like King Kong at the end of the Jack Black version of the film.”

“Artistic interpretation,” Grantaire remarked. 

“Another snide comment about counting his bills,” Enjolras continued. “That is odd, though.”

“My dad’s like that. It’s not that he has anything specific he needs to buy, but rather that he enjoys holding up the line so the person behind him can see exactly how much money he makes. Sort of a little-man complex type thing.”

“That would upset the average customer. Did he go to the bank often?” Enjolras paused, continuing to flip through Grantaire’s notes, then squinting hard down at the paper. “Every three days. How much did he have in cash?”

“A grand.”

“Was that normal?”

“Apparently.”

“Gambler?”

“No, big spender.”

“Think that would make someone want to kill him?”

“If you were standing in line behind him, yeah. But only then if you had some poison lying around—“

“—Aconite!” gasped Joly, who rounded the corner and rammed into Grantaire’s desk, not having lost momentum. Before he could fall backwards and tumble towards the floor, Bossuet stepped in, grabbing the other man by his elbows and hauling him to his   
feet again. “Thanks, Legsle.”

“No problem,” he replied, stepping out again as though catching his coworkers was a daily occurrence.

“Monkshood? Wolfsbane?” Enjolras asked.

“Are we just naming nineties punk rock bands?” Grantaire asked.

“No, the poison. Aconite. One of the most lethal and fastest acting poisons out there. Touch can do it, but consumption is better. It would have taken him out within ten minutes.”

“Touch wouldn’t explain foaming at the mouth—“

“—consumption, then,” Enjolras said, throwing his hands up in frustration. “He didn’t eat anything inside the bank.”

“Whatever it was, he touched it too,” Grantaire pointed out. “Blue fingertips.”

“Tomorrow,” Enjolras decided. “Cordon off the bank tonight and get some scene investigators in there, and R and I will take a look at it tomorrow. Thanks, Joly.” The medical examiner nodded, leaving significantly more calmly than he had entered. Combeferre sighed, murmuring goodnight to the two of them, then collected his belongings and left. Once they were alone, 

Enjolras spoke again. “You took a bus here, today.”

“Good detective work,” Grantaire replied.

“The buses have stopped at this hour.”

“I’ll take a taxi.”

“Don’t. I’ll drive you,” Enjolras said, boxing up the remaining pizza and passing it to his partner, who carried it with him as the 

slipped outside, into the gradually cooling summer air. The sky was a shade of ink, and Grantaire inhaled deeply when he was met with distant exhaust fumes and a burning cigarette being lit somewhere around the corner. 

“Did they make you quit?” Enjolras asked, and Grantaire gave a slight, sharp nod before sliding into the passenger’s side.

“Do you miss it?” Enjolras asked again once he was seated, becoming quickly aware that he was speaking in double meanings and was pushing more than he usually did.

Grantaire raised an eyebrow, then chuckled without smiling. “The act? No. The memories that came with it? Yes. I’ll miss those. When they give you back your sanity they take away the colours the world used to have.”

“Combeferre says I’m like that. Black and white.”

“He’s wrong,” Grantaire exhaled, leaning back against the headrest, his eyes closing. “You’re red.”


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

There were few things Enjolras loved more than his job. Most mornings, he woke up happy to leave his cold apartment and enter a world of justice and helping society move forward—even if it stumbled, even if it was sluggish. Besides, there was no one on the other side of the bed, beckoning him closer or begging him to stay. Sometimes he’d look over and glance at the far pillow for a minute before he rose, but this was the only allowance he gave himself.

When he was violently awoken at four in the morning by his cellphone, however, he began to loathe work. Grappling blindly in the dark, he pushed his curls out of his face and groaned until he found the vibrating device.

“’lo?”

“Hey, Apollo, it’s R.”

Enjolras sat up, turning on the lamp on his night stand, swearing softly when he knocked ‘Candide’ off its well-deserved resting place with his elbow. “You sound sober,” Enjolras remarked gruffly. There was a faint swallowing sound that was audible on the other end of the phone, but Enjolras attributed that to a dry throat.

“I am. Just got a phone call from Cosette.”

“Did you? I didn’t.”

“Yeah, she doesn’t have a death wish. Anyway, I got a rental car, so I’ll come pick you up.”

“Why?”

“New day, new body,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras wished he could switch off Grantaire’s words and just focus on his voice, gravelly and washing over him as he lay in the poorly illuminated room.

He nodded into his pillow until he realised Grantaire couldn’t see him, and then gave out a muffled reply when Grantaire told Enjolras he’d pick up the blonde in half an hour. Enjolras let out a grunt in gratitude, then rolled onto his side, giving himself the standard one minute of gazing at the pillow across from him. It was an odd habit, he realised. No one had ever slept there in the first place, so there was no one there to miss, but that was the closest label he could give to the feeling that welled up in his chest. 

Within fifteen minutes, he was showered, and another five later he was dressed. He opened the window to his small studio apartment with the intent of breathing in some fresh air before the smell of a body filled his nose. To his surprise, heat had already tainted the dawning day, and he sighed when he realised he would be forced into something more casual if he wanted to avoid heat stroke.

The doorbell chimed as he had just stripped off his shirt, and he opened it thoughtlessly, still half-asleep.

“Hey, Enjo—wow,” Grantaire said, cutting himself off, gazing at the exposed skin that lay between the two of them. Enjolras looked confused, then glanced down at his torso, frowning.

“What?”

“You—just—shirt, please. For the sake of a comfortable working relationship,” he stated, sighing in relief when Enjolras pulled a   
shirt on, and then his holster. “I brought you a coffee.” 

Enjolras took it with a half-murmured ‘thank-you,’ grabbing his phone and note-pad, shoving them into a pocket along with a pen, doing his best to keep his eyes open as he locked the apartment behind him. He shuffled through the hallways at Grantaire’s side until they reached the elevator, at which he cautiously sniffed his coffee before sipping at it, then looking mildly perplexed.

“How did you know where I lived?”

“Co—Mlle. Fauchelevent.”

“And my coffee order?”

“I saw how you took it yesterday.”

“Some people don’t even know I drink coffee,” Enjolras remarked, leaning against the side wall and exhaling sharply from his nose, feeling a mild headache pierce the front of his head. 

“I was blessed with the singular intelligence of recalling unimportant things,” Grantaire remarked. “Did pretty poorly in school, and at the academy. Not bad at this, though.”

“I don’t do well at math,” Enjolras said. “Or other languages.”

“Tale bella lastra di marmo!” Grantaire exclaimed, grinning.

Enjolras gave him a dark look, much to his partner’s delight, and within five minutes they were arguing as Grantaire started the rental car. 

“How are you so awake?” Enjolras asked him, leaning against the window on the passenger side, unwilling to admit defeat but unable to win the argument.

“Reverse sleeping schedule. Learned it undercover. No self-respecting drug dealer is awake until three o’clock in the afternoon,” he said. “Haven’t gone to sleep yet today.”

“Insane,” Enjolras commented, drifting off into a pleasant half-sleep, and in retrospect he’d note that Grantaire drove slower and smoother than Enjolras had the day before when Grantaire had slept against the window. Once they reached their destination, Grantaire leaned over into Enjolras’ personal space, tapping his shoulder lightly. The other man grumbled, and then grabbed Grantaire’s hand, curling around it.

A cough startled him awake suddenly, and Enjolras found himself staring up at a bewildered and blushing Grantaire, who was doing his best to avoid eye contact. Slowly, Enjolras released the limb, feeling himself grow equally embarrassed, then slipping out of the car. He turned away from Grantaire, taking a final swig of the coffee before tossing it into a trash can outside of the building.

They were in a nicer part of town—even higher up than the bank, yesterday—and Enjolras was confronted with an apartment building that he would never be able to afford to look at twice on his salary. The front had neat architectural details, and the sides were lined with potted plants that had been trimmed to resemble perfect triangles. There was a doorman that looked at them cynically, but once they held out their badges, they were given instructions to an apartment on the fourth floor.

“Butler did it,” Grantaire cracked.

“Unlikely.”

“No, you don’t get it, that was a reference—“

“—I got the reference, I just don’t think it applies. That was a doorman.”

“I…okay,” Grantaire replied, trailing off. “It was funnier in rehab.”

Enjolras leaned against the wall. “I’m not allowed to mention rehab, but you are?”

“Exactly,” Grantaire said.

“Is this one of those things where everyone else knows this and I don’t?” 

“Nope. In fact, you alone are aware of this social constriction. Now you have a conspiracy to battle ICAE with.”

“Does that make you my second in command?”

“Seeing as there are only two of us, I suppose.”

“Do we have a headquarters?”

“We meet over dead bodies.”

“Dark,” Enjolras said, cracking half a smile. “I like it.”

With that, the elevator announced their arrival to the still mostly sleeping apartment building, and the two of them stumbled out of it, marvelling at the crime scene clearly taped over the door.

“Initial thoughts,” Grantaire began, “are as follows: the owner of the apartment is lazy, and well connected. I would love to have my front door right across from the elevator.”

“No exercise that way. You’d get fat.”

“Excuse you, I used to spend my days chasing kids on heroin. Believe me, they are surprisingly fast.”

“Is it any different than chasing kids on LSD?”

“The kids on LSD tend to take dramatic turns, so as to avoid the dragons they believe I’m in league with. Slightly less difficult, because they don’t get as far.”

“I see,” Enjolras said, pulling plastic gloves out from his back pocket, passing a pair to Grantaire before snapping them on his own hands, much to Grantaire’s amusement.

“If I didn’t know you, I’d assume you were a well-prepared criminal,” he remarked, and Enjolras bit back a smirk as he gingerly opened the front door. 

A lavish apartment lingered on the other side of the door, and Enjolras winced when he was met with hardwood flooring that had illuminated by crime-scene lighting. The kitchen was a mass of marble and stainless steel, and Grantaire stepped in with a whistle, immediately searching out the television instead of the body. Enjolras sighed, following him resolutely but with fatigue in his step, the scowl returning on his lips.

He was met by Joly, who rushed to him eagerly, passing him a face mask, quickly doing the same for Grantaire. 

“Uh, R?” Joly started. “The body is over—“

“—shh, I’m detecting,” Grantaire replied, flopping down on the couch and searching for the remote.

“This is a homicide, we aren’t worried about whether or not he was bumming off his neighbour’s cable,” said a familiar voice, and the three men found themselves graced with the presence of Musichetta, who strode in, still wearing her high heels.   
From experience, Enjolras realised she had likely spent a night out on the town and hadn’t made it home in time to change—she was his favourite crime scene technician, although he would never admit it to her. On one of the occasions he had attempted to reprimand her for showing up late or for making inappropriate remarks while she worked, she had torn a strip off him so quickly that he had been left shaking in his boots. Seeing her fix that same deadly expression on Grantaire made him smile.

Joly lit up as if someone had struck a match inside him, and Grantaire leaned back, raising an eyebrow at the medical examiner, who blushed vehemently.

“Where is the body?” Enjolras asked, and Joly beckoned Enjolras into an elaborate bathroom that easily encompassed the entire bathroom at the precinct. Enjolras was ashamed to admit that he lost some of his objectivity, which worsened when Joly pointed to the body.

Not unlike M. Abelard, the victim was a Caucasian male, around forty five years of age, although there was no ring on his blue finger and he wore no blue tooth or semblance of professional clothing. In fact, he wore no clothing. He was stark naked, propped up on an awkward angle in his bathtub, his head tipped backwards and his eyes still open. While he had been alive, he had been a man of indulgence—that much was clear by his girth and the half-full glass of amber liquid that rested by his right hand and the line of cocaine and hundred dollar bill next to it.

Grantaire looked skeptically at the nude figure, then at the drained bathtub, where other hundred dollar bills were plastered against the side, several more of them clogging the drain.

“Safe to assume the strippers called the police?” he asked, and Musichetta nodded at him curtly, a wicked smile on her lips. 

“No one else is awake yet, however,” she said. “Us lucky bastards are the first of the police department to see this.”

“Okay, but see the blue?” Joly asked excitedly. “I requested you guys, because five bucks says it’s aconite.”

“Yeah, but he’s blue more or less from his pectorals down,” Enjolras said. “That doesn’t fit yesterday’s profile.”

“It does if the aconite was poured in the water,” Grantaire pointed out. “Easy enough murder. Could even be a copy-cat—the murder from yesterday was fairly public, maybe someone took the opportunity to make it look like it was serial event, just to knock off this guy. It’s easy enough to find a poison that mimics the symptoms of Francois.”

“M. Abelard was just heading out of the bank. This—this seems almost personal.”

“Or accidental.”

Enjolras got down on his hands and knees, staring the body in the face. “What is the victim’s name?” 

Grantaire began to flush as Enjolras moved to get a better view of the body and Grantaire was met with a perfect view of Enjolras’ ass in jeans, which seemed to flex as he leaned forward or twisted. 

“His wallet says ‘Henri Grosvenor,’” Joly said, and Musichetta stared at Grantaire, who was pointedly staring anywhere but Enjolras. 

Grantaire sighed behind his face mask, then sank to his knees next to Enjolras, looking at the body from a distance. Enjolras frowned at Grantaire, then resumed prodding the body.

“You can’t see anything from there,” Enjolras pointed out, his eyes fixed on the body.

“I have an excellent view of the bathtub,” Grantaire pointed out. 

Enjolras grabbed Grantaire with a gloved hand by his bicep, tugging the broader man a foot closer, so Grantaire was practically on top of Enjolras, leaning over his back to get a look at the body. For a brief moment, horror flickered over Grantaire’s features before he forced himself to look down at the body sprawled in the tub, naked as the day he was born. 

“What do you see?” Enjolras asked.

“In terms of his clothing choice, Henri’s life had perfect symmetry,” Grantaire said. “Aside from that, I think he got a pretty good death. Quite literally bathing in money, scotch and coke? Sounds good. I’m just wondering how the poison didn’t affect the strippers.”

“They came in, found him like this, pulled the plug and called us,” Musichetta said.

“Why did they pull the plug?” Grantaire asked.

“One of them was a criminology major, and she was worried the body would decay at a faster rate because of the heat in the water,” Joly said. “Lovely girl, really.”

“That says more than I ever could about the price of education in this country,” Enjolras remarked. “What I don’t understand, however, is why his hair isn’t wet.”

“Not that kind of bath, Apollo,” Grantaire said. Enjolras frowned in confusion. “Uh—think of it like Marat, okay?”

“It was a medicinal bath?”

“Okay, no, more like a hot tub.”

“He wasn’t wearing a swimsuit,” Enjolras gestured.

“He was going to have sex,” Grantaire said.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you just say that, then?”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Grantaire admitted.

“If I am uncomfortable, I will let you know,” Enjolras said bluntly. Grantaire turned a shade of pink when he realised he was yet   
again on top of Enjolras on only the second day of being his partner, and the laugh track in Grantaire’s head was cranked up three notches. Musichetta and Joly looked equally amused.

“Can you shift to the left? I can’t see his mouth,” Grantaire said, and found Enjolras pushing against him, his head against Grantaire’s shoulder, and R cursed the corpse that was ruining what could have been a perfectly good scene to enjoy later in the day. 

Grantaire parted the victim’s lips, met with slightly cracked, brown teeth that implied a combination of chronic drug use and nicotine. He sighed, then pulled back from the tangle that was Enjolras, getting a mouthful of curls as he went, spluttering even more when Enjolras rose to his knees at the same time.

Grantaire realised where his hips were positioned on Enjolras’ body was a precarious position and pulled back as quickly as he could, rising to his feet and returning to the living room, swapping latex gloves as he went. 

Enjolras followed him, and Grantaire knew he was thoroughly screwed as the other man leaned over yet again in his peripheral vision. He wondered if there was any way of taking medication to dull his libido—maybe this was why all of Enjolras’ partners had demanded to be put with someone else. Grantaire was adamant he was going back to Narcotics, though, so it hardly seemed worthwhile to stress about being partners with Enjolras for a long time.

Lost in his own thoughts, he sorted through the risqué magazines on the coffee table, then knocking on the wood. Pausing when he heard a quiet echo, Grantaire pushed against the surface, grimacing when he felt it give way, the top of the coffee table toppling off. Enjolras turned abruptly, crossing the room to stand next to Grantaire as the other man pulled out six bags of neatly wrapped cocaine, each one of them labelled and time stamped.

“Big player,” Grantaire said. “Only the well-connected worry about the quality of their product.”

“Could it be unrelated to M. Abelard?”

“No way. Drug dealers don’t get killed through poison, unless they taint their own stuff and then use it, which is reckless on a good day. Aconite, though? That doesn’t make sense,” Grantaire said, adjusting his mask. “Ten francs says they are connected.”

“The murders of a business man and a drug dealer?” Musichetta asked. “You’re on, Narc.”

OoOoO

By eight a.m., both of them were exhausted. Enjolras was reclining in his chair, keeping up the pretense of being awake by flipping through notes. Grantaire was slumped against his desk, a phone pressed to his ear and his face invisible in the cradle of his arms. From time to time, he raised his upper body enough to jot down a note, then returned to his relaxed pose.

“Thank you, mademoiselle,” he finally said. “I hope the rest of you day has more nudity and less violence.”

There was a retort on the other end of the line, and then Enjolras heard static. Grantaire hung up his cell phone, sitting up and running a hand over his face. 

“Anything?” Enjolras asked.

“Nothing. No one knows him personally enough to say where he was for the rest of the day, or if this was normal behavior. He lived and died alone. Covered in money, with nice scotch and a line of cocaine, though. Can’t have been that terrible,” Grantaire shrugged. “I’d like to die like that.”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t think I’d like to die,” Enjolras said. 

“Plans for immortality, Apollo?”

“Maybe,” he replied. 

“Sounds good,” Grantaire replied. “Set yourself up on a Chariot of Fire, get some mortal lovers and watch the world forget you. No thanks. I’ll be over here, sleeping.”

As if called by a divinity, Combeferre appeared, carrying four coffees in a tray, placing one on every desk. After placing one on Grantaire’s desk, he seemed to pause, as if considering patting the mass of black curls, but recoiled his hand quickly, returning to his desk, where Courfeyrac was grinning at him.

“Ah, Maman Combeferre,” Courfeyrac cooed. “Worry about your own love life.”

“You can’t nurse dead things,” Combeferre replied, sighing as Eponine walked past Homicide section, grinning at Marius. What caught Enjolras’ attention, however, was the well-dressed man in her custody. Montparnasse appeared to be decked out from head to foot in Armani, and when Eponine glanced away he slipped out of her fingers, darting into Homicide.

The way he held his hands behind his back was so natural that it almost seemed as if there was nothing binding his hands together. He smirked at everyone and then bowed at them courteously before taking a seat on Combeferre’s desk, crossing his legs and waiting patiently.

“Hello, lovely,” he said to Combeferre. “How has your seduction been going?”

“Absolutely nowhere,” Combeferre replied. “What have you done now?”

Montparnasse shrugged off the question. “Buy her flowers. You’re Parisian, man! This should be second nature! You can buy anyone flowers. For example, I could buy Enjolras—“

“—leave me out of this—“

“—red roses, and say they remind me of his temper. I could buy Courfeyrac lilies and say they are for his liver--"

"--rude!" Courfeyrac retorted. 

"--and your sleeping friend—“

With that, Grantaire raised his head, and Montparnasse had the grace to look slightly surprised before grinning. “Ah, ‘Taire! How’s life? Or, with your new job, I should probably ask ‘how’s death’?”

“The rich are dying,” Grantaire stated.

“So are the poor. I was under the impression it was a universal suffrage,” Montparnasse replied.

Enjolras’ lips quirked up, and Grantaire found himself grated by the thief across from him. Combeferre saw the interaction and tugged on Montparnasse’s handcuffs, which elicited a displeased expression on the other man’s face, and he wiggled his fingers aggressively.

“Excuse you,” Montparnasse said, “I am here for your benefit. You’ll look so heroic, trust me.” He finished his remark by undoing his handcuffs swiftly, then attaching one to Combeferre’s wrist and the other to himself, as if making some bizarre sort of friendship bracelet, much to Courfeyrac’s displeasure.

With that, Eponine strode into Homicide, her eyes darting around in a panic, relaxing only once she saw Montparnasse chained to Combeferre. The thief had put on a mock expression of displeasure, and sent fake glowers towards Combeferre.

“You son of a bitch,” Eponine snarled, and Montparnasse hung his head, masking the small smile that was playing on his lips. Combeferre adopted an expression of seriousness, which seemed to easily settle on his face, although smiled gently when he saw the female detective.

“Nice to see you too, ‘Ponine,” he greeted her, and Grantaire found it impossible to miss the way Combeferre lit up as if someone had stolen the stars and hung them in the whites of his eyes.

She smiled courteously at him, quickly undoing the handcuff around Combeferre’s arm, although Combeferre’s eyes never left her face and she took longer than what was expected as her fingers brushed his arm, and Grantaire was grinning manically. 

Courfeyrac peered over with the utmost interest, feigning casualty when it looked like Eponine might glance in his direction.  
Once she stood, cuffed to Montparnasse, she smiled politely back at Combeferre, and Montparnasse turned his head to blow a kiss to Combeferre, then turning and doing the same to Grantaire. 

“I’d say call me, gentlemen, but I only get one phone call and I wouldn’t want you to fight,” Montparnasse commented, and Enjolras rolled his eyes. Combeferre appeared not to notice, instead sinking into a happy haze from their interaction.

“You look like Pontmercy,” Courfeyrac commented. 

“I know that feeling, you poor, poor bastard,” Grantaire chipped in. “Enjolras, do you have any ideas?”

“We need—“ Enjolras began, but he was cut off sharply when Cosette strode into Homicide, a fire in her eyes. Combeferre   
raised an eyebrow, and Grantaire rolled his chair back towards Enjolras’ desk. “—get off,” Enjolras commented as Grantaire leaned back into him, then circling around him so he was hidden by Enjolras.

“You two,” Cosette commanded, using a tone only Marius would recognise as having an edge of fear, “we need to talk.”

“Did you complain about me?” Enjolras murmured to Grantaire, who chuckled.

“Never. Did you about me?”

“Of—no,” Enjolras corrected himself, then stood abruptly, feeling slightly uncomfortable with the way Grantaire clung to his back, shaking him off multiple times, only to find the same broad fingers on his shoulders again.

Once they were in Cosette’s office, the two immediately sat down across from her desk, and Grantaire rolled his eyes in an attempt not to look terrified.

“In the principal’s office, yet again,” he commented, and Enjolras glared at him. 

“Whatever it was, I guarantee it was all Grantaire,” Enjolras stated, ignoring the wide eyes Grantaire sent him and the way he dolefully batted his eyelashes.

“It’s neither of you, surprisingly,” Cosette said, clenching her jaw. “We have a problem, however.”

“Do we?”

“There’s been a third murder,” she stated, handing the two of them a file folder. They opened it quickly, flipping to the picture of the body, where a young woman laid stretched out on a dark sidewalk, somewhere under a bridge if Enjolras’ knowledge of Paris was correct. Grantaire squinted his eyes in concentration, tapping the paper lightly where her fingertips were, alerting Enjolras to the shade of blue they had turned. Enjolras groaned.

“She doesn’t fit the profile,” he muttered, running his hands over his face.

“When?” Grantaire asked, fatigue clearly settling in on his features.

“Sometime last night. They only found her an hour ago, and then it got tagged and sent to me,” Cosette said. “There’s a bigger problem than that, though. Third murder, different profile? The media is going to spin this like it’s a serial killer. If you don’t close this case before they get wind of it, the public will panic.”

“How long?” Enjolras asked, raising his head from his hands.

“I can buy you seventy-two hours max,” she replied, and Grantaire felt his heart sink to the bottom of his stomach.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

“This smells like my last apartment,” Grantaire remarked, standing behind Enjolras as the other man leaned over the young woman. He hadn’t missed the saddened expression that had crossed Enjolras’ face, and Grantaire realised this was likely because she couldn’t have been much older than twenty. Where she was lying was a different matter altogether, however—they were under a damp bridge, a river trickling next to the victim, with several shattered beer bottles and discarded condoms near her.

Grantaire felt nothing, however. He supposed it was something he ought to consult in therapy, but he shrugged off the loss of the anonymous woman as though it was nothing.

“Can you be serious for five minutes?” Enjolras snarled, but Grantaire was too busy prodding the water, trying to contemplate what this woman had in common with a drug dealer and a business man, and why she was dead. 

“Nope,” Grantaire remarked. “And if you keep that up, you’ll fuck yourself over. Believe me, I’ve done it. Just accept that no matter who she was or where she was going, she’s not in pain anymore.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not sad. Someone lost their life, and—“

“—I didn’t think you’d be so sentimental, Apollo. You didn’t know her, did you?”

“No, and don’t call me that,” Enjolras growled. Joly bent down silently, brushing her forehead off with a Q-tip and knocking a dark curl off her face.

“Track marks on her arm,” he noted into a voice recorder. “Blue fingertips present, as well as some colouration on her nose. May have somehow inhaled the aconite. No signs of struggle. Shows no symptoms of an overdose. Caucasian, mid-twenties or younger, female, broad-shouldered.” With that, he shut off the recorder, giving Enjolras a look before pulling him close. “You haven’t talked to him, have you?”

“About what?”

“Don’t play dumb. When he was undercover.”

“He doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“Not how he felt, how you did. Don’t think I’ve forgotten,” Joly commented. He returned his voice to a normal volume when Grantaire walked towards them. “We should put in a call to Jehan, in missing persons, considering there’s no ID.”

Grantaire shook his head. “If she’s an addict, there won’t be anything. See her hands? See the scars on them? She’s been cooking her own stuff and got burnt in the process. None of them are fresh; she’s been at this a while. How she got poisoned is beyond me. Most of them just OD before this phase.”

Enjolras pointedly ignored both of his colleagues and the other scene investigators milling around him. He resisted the urge to scowl, reached under the woman’s body, extracting a wallet. Carefully, he flipped through it, noted that it was definitely not hers. The money was gone from its centerfold, and all of the credit cards were gone. He glanced at the river next to her and decided that was where the contents had ended up, and followed it with his eyes. In her other pocket was a disposable cell-phone, and he turned it on and flipped through the contacts, none of which seemed to have any relation to the first two victims.  
“God, it’s hot,” he murmured, feeling a bead of sweat roll down his spine, and Grantaire watched him from out of the corner of his eye.

“I know, even in the shade,” Grantaire remarked. “Our next move should be to find her dealer. They’ll know the most about her.”

“How do we do that? I doubt they’ll be on her contact list.”

“Pass me her phone,” Grantaire said, taking it from Enjolras when he stood, then leaning against the wall behind him. He dialled the first number on the list, cranking up the volume and then holding it between Enjolras and himself—this was hardly necessary, as Enjolras was already pressing up against him, so close that their heads brushed when Enjolras leaned in to hear what was on the other end of the line.

“Hello?” a voice asked, distinctly male and deep.

“Hi,” Grantaire said, raising his voice half an octave, adopting a friendlier tone that made Enjolras raise an eyebrow. “I found this phone, and I was wondering who it belonged to?”

“Oh, man,” the guy said, chuckling. “Did Elaine lose her phone again? She’s always bitching about that.”

“Yeah, I can imagine,” Grantaire said. “Anyway, what’s her last name, so I can find her and give it back?”

“Jesus, buddy, I got no clue. We’re not that kind of friends, y’know?”

“Okay. Do you know where she usually hangs out?”

The man listed vague streets to Grantaire, and while Enjolras was jotting them down furious, Grantaire just nodded from time, sometimes gesturing to Enjolras not to write one down. Finally, when he finished, Grantaire said, “Thanks. I’ll try and get it back to her.” 

Enjolras looked at him skeptically when Grantaire hung up. “You should have just told him the truth. Now he thinks she’s alive.”

“If I even mention the police, they’ll scatter. Don’t worry, they’re used to their friends dying.”

“I doubt that.”

“Don’t,” Grantaire said.

“Could she have anything to do with the drug dealer?”

“No, he was coke and she was heroine. Big difference. Totally different circles,” he explained. “You and I will do the first three addresses, and we’ll send some plain clothes to do the other ones. It’s too damn hot out for that much footwork.”

“I don’t know how to talk to junkies,” Enjolras stated plainly.

“Just come with me, then. You’ll lessen my chances of getting stabbed.”

“Do you have a vest in your car?”

Grantaire frowned at him, quickly texting someone the addresses on Enjolras’ notepad, then striding over to his car, Enjolras following him closely. He pocketed his cell-phone and popped open the trunk of his car, where there were three bullet-proof vests and two large sweaters, much to Enjolras’ surprise.

“Why?”

“The same reason you have gloves in your glove box,” Grantaire remarked.

“You got this car yesterday.”

“Hey, some people don’t go anywhere without a condom in their wallet. It’s just like that, only more practical.”

“How is having a bullet proof vest more practical than a condom?” Enjolras asked. “No, wait, I take that back. I don’t want to know. But what are the sweaters for?”

“Covering the vests,” Grantaire said, looking at Enjolras as though he was stupid. “Here, you put on the red one.”

“The other one has red on it too—“

“—that’s not its original colour.”

“Holy shit,” Enjolras swore. “Yeah, I’ll take the other one.”

Within fifteen minutes, Enjolras found himself drowning in Grantaire’s sweater and being laughed at by the other man.

“I had no idea you were so small,” he wheezed.

“We’re the same height, I just don’t happen to have a giant chest,” Enjolras retorted. “I’m slender and you are broad. It all makes sense—stop laughing—have you never had a suit fitted?”

“No, I ran away from any activity that could possibly involve, including funerals, weddings and formal events,” Grantaire chuckled, wiping a tear from his eye. “Oh God, you usually look so composed, but now you just look like—me. That is funny.”

“I’m sure I look fine,” Enjolras said, turning his chin up. “Come on, let’s go before I start to sweat through your sweater.”

“You do that and you’re washing it.”

“I already want to—why does it smell like cheap detergent and whisky?”

“Because I drank whisky doing laundry, why do you think?” Grantaire asked, rolling his eyes. “And I suppose your clothes all smell like sunshine and the exhales of wind?”

“Well, no, but I don’t get drunk washing them.”

“Who said I was drunk?” Grantaire asked, getting in the car and pulling his GPS off the dash and putting it in his glove box, doing the same with his phone and wallet. Enjolras put his possessions in the same place, grumbling when Grantaire locked it.

“Do you want your phone being used to make drug deals? Would you like mysterious charges on your credit card?” he asked, looking at Enjolras skeptically.

“I’m friends with Courfeyrac, I’m used to those things,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire smirked. 

“Don’t think I’ve ever heard you make a joke about anybody but me.”

“You give me the best material.”

“So funny, Enjolras. I’ll have you know many people enjoy my company. Some people actually look forward to spending time with me. Even more unbelievably, some people enjoy my presence so much they find me attractive.”

Enjolras looked out the passenger window, playing with his seatbelt. “Can’t imagine.”

“Not even just mentally attractive, but physically, too,” Grantaire continued, starting the car and leaving the crime scene behind them, Elaine’s phone in a small evidence bag on his lap.

“Stranger and stranger,” Enjolras commented, pointedly not looking at Grantaire.

“Some may even wonder what I’m like sexually.”

“My mind is blown.”

“Others are romantic. They wonder what it would be like to kiss me.”

“Odd.”

“To have me hold them, to have me make them dinner—“

“—I get it—“

“—to hold my hand—“

“—weird—“

“—and to wake up next to me. All of this must seem so alien to you.”

“Practically Vulcan,” Enjolras remarked. “But if they thought all of those things about you, wouldn’t they be worried about you?”

“That’s what made being undercover so hard. Really can’t date,” Grantaire mused. “Not that you’d have any trouble with that.”

“Dating?”

“Yeah.”

“I touch dead people all day. It freaks me out when they move,” Enjolras confessed, and Grantaire cracked up. “You laugh now, but it’ll happen to you.” 

“I don’t know about that. I think I’ll have a one-night stand before then,” Grantaire remarked. 

“What happened to you being depressively selective?”

“Ah, I think that’s what happened to Courfeyrac, too. I don’t expect you to get it.”

“Try me.”

“Okay, you love them, alright? You love them more than anything. But your body has needs, as well as the rest of you. So you start to take random people that look like them, and you put their face on a stranger, give the stranger their smell, their everything, but only for the night. When you wake up the next day, you know it’s not them, and you can’t stay.”

“I don’t get it,” Enjolras said. “Why can’t you have them?”

“I don’t know why Courf doesn’t.”

“But you?”

“They don’t feel the same way.”

“Oh,” Enjolras said, nodding to himself. “I know that feeling.”

“I can’t picture it,” Grantaire chuckled. “You, mooning over someone? Following them around the room with your eyes? Imagining—daydreaming—“

“—it’s none of your business what I daydream about,” Enjolras snapped, and Grantaire sighed. 

“I thought we were doing well, sharing.”

“Ask me my favourite colour, next time.”

“It’s red.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It was at the Academy.”

“It wasn’t then, either.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your favourite colour, Enjolras?”

“Green,” he stated, crossing his arms over his chest. “Like yours.”

“Nope.”

“No?”

“You wear it all the time—“

“—not my favourite colour,” Grantaire shrugged.

“What is?”

“Red.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Weird.”

“I’ll say.”

“You don’t wear red, though.”

“It doesn’t look good on me. You don’t wear green.”

“Can’t pull it off.”

“There’s nothing you can’t pull off,” Grantaire said, pulling over and parking, being careful to lock the car thoroughly once Enjolras climbed out, double checking his side as Enjolras did the same.

“Your sweater.”

“It’s just strange to see you look relaxed,” he pointed out, then descending down several steps before knocking against the door, hammering out an odd beat. 

“Been here before?” Enjolras whispered in his ear, and Grantaire shuddered, happy when someone opened the door and distracted him from the blonde pressed against his back. He counted the bullet-proof vests as a blessing in more way than one, and nodded at the guy at the door, twitching his foot anxiously.

“Hey, man,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras glanced nervously behind them. In any other circumstance, Grantaire would have been alarmed at how easily Enjolras slipped into the role of an addict, but today he was grateful.

“Hey,” the broad-shouldered, unattractive man replied.

“I’m looking for my sister,” Grantaire continued. “Elaine? She has dark, curly hair like me, sort of pale—“

Enjolras swallowed, shifting from foot to foot, nervously shuffling on the step above Grantaire. He ducked his head down, brushing the crown of his hair against the back of Grantaire’s head. The gesture lasted only a second, but suddenly Grantaire understood why Enjolras had been upset about the young girl under the bridge.

“—I know Elaine,” the guy replied. “She’s not here.”

“Do you know where she might be?” Grantaire continued, and the guy shook his head before opening the door further, gesturing for them to come in. Enjolras closely followed Grantaire down the steps, led by an invisible string attached to the other man’s spine.

Instantly, he was met with darkness. They had entered an apartment, that much was obvious, but the windows were covered with heavy fabric curtains, and the walls were scorched from an accident of some sort. Enjolras was rarely nervous, but he wanted to glue himself to Grantaire, half to protect him, half to be protected. Three meters away from him, there was a couch with two people draped over it and two bare mattresses on the floor, each of which held three people. Two people were making half-hearted attempts at making out, but most of the others were stretched out, relaxing. Some people gazed up at the ceiling with longing, as though they wanted the roof to fly off and let them out. Others buried their faces in the mattresses and didn’t so much as look up when Enjolras and Grantaire stumbled in. 

“Heroin,” Grantaire murmured to Enjolras, who hummed in response when he saw a needle on the floor. Around the corner, something was cooking in the kitchen, and Enjolras thought it was safe to bet it wasn’t soup. A young man stirred it, pale and waspish, and Grantaire turned his head towards Enjolras, placing his lips by Enjolras’ ear. “Talk to the people on the mattresses. I’ll handle the guy cooking.”

Enjolras nodded, shuffling towards the living room and flopping down on the couch, wanting to leap off of it as soon as it dipped  
under his weight. He winced when he saw Grantaire lean up against the counter casually, noticing how easily the man fit into the scene.

“Hey,” he said to a young woman, who spread out over the lap of another woman next to her, and who smiled loosely at Enjolras in reply.

“Hey,” she said, a slur audible in her words.

“Do you know Elaine?”

“S-she’s a nice girl,” was the answer he got.

“Does anyone think she’s not nice?”

“S-som-me people.”

The woman behind her laughed. “The people who she steals from. Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb—Mary had a little lamb,” she half sang, half whispered. “Mary had a little lamb that she c-couldn’t afford. One day, one day, one day the lamb went to play, went to play, went to play, and the police took the lamb awayyy.”

“Elaine sings that song,” the first woman said. 

“Where did she hear it?” Enjolras asked patiently.

“From someone whose credit card she stole,” the second woman remarked. “No good, though. They don’t like credit—credit—edit—cash. Cash’ll take you everywhere.”

When Grantaire straightened and nodded to Enjolras, he promptly stood up, side-stepping through the bodies of people on the mattresses, sighing in relief when he reached Grantaire and the two made their way towards the door. The broad shouldered man frowned at them as they left, and Enjolras blinked rapidly when they stepped into the sunlight again.

Once they were in the car, Enjolras turned to Grantaire. “She was a thief. Stole credit cards.”

“Sometimes,” Grantaire replied. “The guy cooking said she had started to pay with bigger bills, lately.”

“M. Abelard walked out of the bank, wallet in hand, and died. M. Grosvenor dies in his bathtub, literally soaking in money, and Elaine steals someone’s wallet and ends up dead. She doesn’t fit the profile. My guess is that is because she wasn’t the intended victim.”

“She stole someone’s wallet,” Grantaire said, undoing his hoodie and tossing it on the back seat. He did the same with his bullet-  
proof vest, then slipping it under the seat. Enjolras did the same with his vest, but folded up the hoodie on his lap, then clutched it possessively. Grantaire looked at him skeptically.

“What? I’m going to wash it. It smells like heroin addicts—“

“—give me that,” Grantaire said, picking it up and sniffing it. “It smells the same as before.”

Enjolras snatched it back. “I’m washing it. Anyway, the money was coated with the aconite, I bet.”

“Well done, detective—“

“—I bet Abelard and Grosvenor used the same bank—“

“—which we now have to close down. Great.”

“Cosette will get us the man power, no need to worry.”

Grantaire nodded, and the two drove in silence for two blocks before he spoke again. “Do you know what I just realised?”

“What?”

“You missed me.”

“Come again?” Enjolras asked.

“I didn’t even know you knew I existed. I mean, everyone knows you, Apollo. You light up a room.”

“You’re the only person that thinks that, and of course I knew who you were—“

“—more than that,” Grantaire pointed out. “You missed me. I wasn’t there and you gave a damn.”

Enjolras crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re talking out of your ass. We barely talked.”

“That’s what I thought, too. But do you know what Courfeyrac told me? He said you asked about me at least once a week.”

“Courfeyrac is a liar.”

“Combeferre confirmed it.”

“Combeferre is a traitor.”

“Enjolras—“

“—everyone wanted to know, okay? Not just me. They said you were on a big bust, that you were onto something big, and I just wanted to know what. I was investigating. It had nothing to do with you personally.” 

“Okay,” Grantaire said, shrugging. “No love lost there, huh?”

“I—well, come on, did you think about me?”

“Sober or not?”

“Both, either—“

“—both. Don’t look so shocked, I thought about everyone we were friends with back at the academy. If you can call it that, since except with Joly and Bossuet, I just sort of tagged along. I solved crimes with you guys in my head, sometimes, when I was high or coming off a high and needed a distraction.”

“You shouldn’t have gone undercover.”

“Why not?”

“It wasn’t safe.”

“Of course not. They pick guys like me, you know. The one’s without any family—“

“—fuck you,” Enjolras said curtly, out of the blue. “I’m homicide. I was homicide when they sent you undercover. I called dispatch every time they found a dark haired John-Doe.”

A protracted silence filled the car in which both men aggressively avoided looking at each other, and then Enjolras stared at Grantaire’s hands on the wheel. The scars were visible in the afternoon light, and Enjolras became suddenly aware of how tired he was. Everything felt too light, as if he was drifting away, and Grantaire was heavy. 

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire stated, his voice gravelly. “It was obviously a personal thing, and I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“It’s all personal. Everything you ask is personal. You should be like Jehan, he just asked about poetry.”

“Dante or Milton?”

“Dante.”

“Good talk,” Grantaire said sarcastically, smirking into the dead air between the two of them. He failed to notice the way Enjolras continued to watch his hands, eyes glazed and lips turned down in a small frown until Enjolras tapped lightly on his right knuckle after they pulled over in the precinct parking lot.

“May I?” Enjolras asked, and Grantaire let him pick up the larger hand, rolling it around in his own, glancing over the scars furtively.

“Find any evidence?”

Enjolras hummed in response, quietly rubbing over the joints and muscles, calming down significantly when he felt the pulse beneath them continue to hammer out a beat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, real life caught up! I should have more time this coming week to write, however, so the next chapter should be up soon. Thank you for all of your lovely comments and kudos, and I sincerely hope you're enjoying the story so far!


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

“Abelard, Grosvenor, and the almost Jane-Doe, Elaine. All of which have died at the hands of aconite, correct? And you believe this to be the fault of the bank,” Combeferre said, looking up at Grantaire and Enjolras from his notepad, his glasses having slid down on his nose. “And that’s why Courfeyrac, Jehan, Eponine, Bahorel, Feuilly and I are here?”

“And Joly and Musichetta,” Enjolras added, his expression stoic, but the bags forming under his eyes were darker than they had been when he had been stirred from his bed, far too many hours ago. 

“You do realise if you’re right, this is more than just homicide,” Eponine said, crossing her arms over her chest and giving Enjolras a dark look. Around them, patrol officers were swarming, six bank employees had been taken into custody and crime scene techs were swirling in elaborate circles, as far as Grantaire could tell. Everyone was having their wallet tested. Bahorel was hopping from foot-to-foot, and Feuilly was patting him on the arm consolingly, holding him to the ground. “This would be a national security threat.”

“I don’t think terrorism is the right term,” Combeferre told her. “This sounds more along the lines of a serial killer.” With that, Courfeyrac returned to Combeferre’s side, making a point of avoiding Jehan’s gaze. 

“Is there anyway of testing for the aconite, aside from in the lab?” Feuilly asked, and Musichetta answered curtly as she walked   
past.

“No.”

“Okay, here’s the system,” Grantaire said, “we need every single drawer of money bagged and tagged, but separately. In particular, separate the hundreds.”

“Then we need the schedule of who works what till and when. Speak individually to every teller, because they may swap amongst   
themselves when they feel like it or there is an emergency. Combeferre, do you have a profile?” Enjolras asked, thanking Joly for what seemed like the fifth time that day when Joly passed the group of them face masks.

“I don’t have all the information I need. At this point, all I can pin down is that this person has been failed by the system, harbours anger towards the wealthy, and has constructed a system in which they think the innocent, or those they relate to, can’t get hurt. Already, this has failed. They don’t know that, necessarily. I think we should hold on to that piece of information,” Combeferre concluded. “I can’t pin down gender, age, or race, in case you were wondering. If I did, however, it might work against us. Many people have been failed by the system, not just certain categories.”

“This is someone who is meticulous,” Jehan added. “They knew exactly what poison to use, what bills to apply it to, and knew that only those that touched the bills excessively and held them close would be affected.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire threw in. “Abelard counted every single one. Grosvenor literally bathed in them. While Elaine was likely not the intended victim, she might have palmed them excessively, licked them—we don’t know for sure.”

“We also don’t know what happened to the bills in that wallet,” Enjolras added. “There may be a fourth victim, possibly more.”

“Is Montparnasse still in custody?” Combeferre asked, and Eponine nodded. The brief expression of concern that crossed Combeferre’s features disappeared, and he adjusted his glasses. Eponine smiled softly at him, then grabbed several evidence bags from a passing tech, heading towards the tills with an intensity on her features.

“I’ll be on interviewing duty,” Courfeyrac said.

“I’ll come too,” Jehan said, and Courfeyrac turned a slight shade of green, glancing back nervously at Grantaire, who patted him   
once on the back. 

A quiet, ‘Attaboy,’ was audible, and then Bossuet came into view, grinning at Enjolras and Grantaire with broad, warm features. “Who needs me, and where?”

“Interviewing,” Enjolras directed, and then smiled when Bossuet passed both Grantaire and Enjolras small, colourful bottles of some form of energy drink. 

“You are a great man, Legsle,” Grantaire said, groaning quietly as he chugged down the liquid. “Radioactive waste with fruit flavouring. I feel like I’m drinking Enjolras.”

“Hilarious,” Enjolras said. “We need to talk to the manager. They make enough money not to fit the profile, and they should know a considerably amount about their employees.”

Within ten minutes, Enjolras and Grantaire had a middle-aged woman sitting in a break room across from them, pursing her lips and looking over her fingers quietly, anxiously avoiding their eyes. “Mlle. Shasa—“ Grantaire began, but she promptly cut him off.

“—look, I’m upset any of this happened, okay?” the manager said, crossing her legs and looking at the two detectives squarely. “This is probably my fault. If I had watched the employees better, if I watched for some signs—but no, I wanted to remain professional. I wanted people to take me seriously. And now people are dead, because of me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, you didn’t kill them,” Enjolras said, looking at her squarely. 

Before she could reply, Grantaire cut in with, “What my partner means to say,” he stepped on Enjolras’ foot, eliciting a jaw tense from the other man, “is that this is only the fault of whoever killed those people.”

“I didn’t do that,” Mlle. Shasa admitted. 

“What do you know about your employees?” Grantaire asked, patiently. 

“On any given shift, there are ten tellers working. We try to keep one per window, otherwise people accuse us of being inefficient. We pride ourselves on efficiency.”

“How much access do they have to the money?”

“Not very much. They only have as long as the client is at the window, and however long they take to hand over the money. If the client stays at the window, they get a while longer.”

“Is the cash sent out electronically?”

“Yes.”

“So they don’t have access to all the bills at any given point in time?”

“No.”

“Ten tellers,” Enjolras said. “And they work from nine to five?” 

“Yes.”

“Yesterday, which ten were working?”

“Would you like me to make you a list?”

“Yes. Are the same ten working today?”

“No. Some of them took today off, because they were traumatised by that—that dead man.”

“M. Abelard?” Grantaire asked. “Yes. Please make a list of those that were working, and put a star next to the ones that took today off, if you don’t mind.”

“In order to handle the money—“

“—everyone wears gloves,” Mlle. Sasha stated. “I instituted that policy in this branch. I wanted them to wear masks, too, but they already have panes of glass between them and the clients.”

“Why the masks?” Grantaire asked. 

“Illness. I don’t want them to get sick. That decreases efficiency, and I got to this position by being efficient. Money, you see, is very dirty. It passes through thousands of hands—some of those hands not being very clean. Before, when the tellers didn’t have gloves, one employee a week was sick. Now, with the gloves, no one is sick.”

“And you don’t have to pay them for sick days,” Enjolras said, looking at her with a sort of disgruntled contempt. It made Grantaire want to laugh—in another life, Enjolras could have easily been someone like Mlle. Sasha, but in this life, he was her opposite.

“No, I just didn’t want them to get sick,” she said. 

“Has anyone been acting differently, at all?”

“I don’t know.”

“Surely, you do,” Enjolras said, rolling his eyes. “Who has been less efficient? Slower with clients?”

“Teller number three has been, but I believe his wife left him recently. He wasn’t working yesterday.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know his wife left him recently—“

“—he told me that when I lectured him for being less efficient,” she concluded, and Enjolras sighed, rubbing his eyes. 

“Send in the next person, please,” he stated tonelessly, and she nodded, standing up.

“Thank you for your co-operation,” Grantaire threw in, patting Enjolras on the back when the other man sunk down onto the table, letting out a sound that encompassed all of their frustration. 

In the room next to them, Courfeyrac and Jehan were having even less luck, as an older man stumbled quietly over his words, and it became apparent quickly that they did not share a first language. 

“M. Stanislaw,” Jehan began, and Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow at his impeccable pronunciation. “We have a translator back at the precinct that speaks Polish. Would you like us to call him?”

“Y-yes,” Stanislaw said, bowing his head, a blush covering his cheeks. Within ten minutes, an eager looking Marius appeared at the bank, and Courfeyrac stopped him before he went into the room. 

“Marius, Jehan is in there,” Courfeyrac said, a whine in his voice.

“Yes?”

“And, well, you know,” Courfeyrac continued. “I’ve just been—well—awkward.”

“Because he rejected you? That doesn’t make any sense. I rejected you, and we’re still friends,” Marius said, smiling jovially at Courfeyrac.

“You apologised for about half an hour because you were straight,” Courfeyrac said, rolling his eyes. “Jehan’s gay, and he just said, ‘no.’ No! No reason why, no context, just—no.”

“Did you tell him how you felt?”

“No, I’m not insane.”

“Wasn’t this a year ago? I’m sure Jehan’s forgotten. He probably doesn’t care.”

“I care, though.”

“Just be—be yourself,” Marius said, after some deliberation, opening the door and beaming at the bank teller and Jehan   
alike. “Witaj, dobry panie! Nazywam się Marius Pontmercy, a ja jestem tutaj, aby przetłumaczyć dla Ciebie.”

Within minutes, the two were conversing rapidly in Polish, and Jehan and Courfeyrac were sitting awkwardly side by side, Courfeyrac’s posture stiff as he avoided Jehan’s gaze. Quietly, Jehan scribbled down, ‘I don’t think he did it.’

Courfeyrac responded quickly. ‘Me neither. The perp would be angry, wouldn’t they?’

‘Yes. He’s smiling. Doesn’t look angry.’

“Ah, M. Stanislaw, would you mind answering a few questions?” Courfeyrac asked. Two and a half minutes later, it became clear that either M. Stanislaw was an exceptionally talented liar, or not guilty. When he invited Marius to some party, Courfeyrac   
decided to assume the latter, and thanked the friendly man for his time.

Jehan pursed his lips idly, and the two avoided looking at each other once Marius left.

“So,” Courfeyrac began, “coffee?”

“I already told you, I’m not interested,” Jehan said.

“Uh, no, I meant would you like me to grab you a cup. I was going to stop in at the place next door.”

“Oh,” Jehan tilted his jaw upward, looking pointedly at the lights on the ceiling. “Yeah, that would be nice, thanks.”  
Courfeyrac shuffled awkwardly out of the room, his face on fire as he realised he had been rejected by Jehan again, even if he hadn’t been trying to ask the poet out.

He rushed past Combeferre and Eponine, who were sorting through the money, their shoulders brushing as they furtively tried to ignore the ongoing banter between Feuilly and Bahorel, who had been daring one another to go through each drawer. The method had been effective, but their commentary made it difficult to focus.

“Almost as bad as Enjolras and Grantaire,” Eponine gritted out. “At least those two are a little bit quieter.”

“I concur,” Combeferre added, smiling softly as Eponine brushed against him, whistling when she bagged a stack of hundreds. “How has the Pontmercy Pursuit been going?”

“Oh, you know,” she said, grinning masochistically at Combeferre, “terribly. He’s in love with Cosette. To be honest, I don’t know that it’s really him I’m interested in, or just the idea of him.”

“What’s the idea of him?”

“Someone…calm. Reliable. Sweet. The opposite of me.”

“I think you are sweet,” Combeferre chipped in.

Eponine laughed. “Like dark chocolate, maybe. Anyway, it’s hard. There’s not a lot of people like that.”

“Probably why Marius is so appealing,” he stated. 

“Ah, all the good ones are gay,” she said, grinning. “Like you!”

“Wait, what?” Combeferre asked, stopping abruptly. 

“What?” Eponine asked. 

“I’m one of the good ones?” he asked.

“Of course!”

“Oh.”

“I mean, someone like you? People would be fighting over a guy that perfect. I bet you bake, and everything. I tell you, Combeferre, the entire heterosexual female population is grieving you.”

“Ah, Eponine—“ he began, swallowing to stabilise himself. “—you do know that I am attracted to women, don’t you?”

“What?” she asked, taken aback. “No way.”

“Way.”

“But all of your friends are gay!”

“Not all—Enjolras is—something,” Combeferre said, pausing. “Actually, that is a fairly reasonable assumption, all things considered. And, I mean, I certainly don’t write people off based on their gender, but as of this date, I’ve always preferred women.”

“Then how come you’re single? Don’t tell me you have a ‘nice guy’ complex.”

“Not at all,” Combeferre said, smiling. “I don’t profess to be anything but me. Actually, I suspect that is why I’m single. Courfeyrac tried putting me on a dating website, and there wasn’t an awful lot to write under personal description.”

“Too bad. I bet you’re romantic,” Eponine said, but the words sounded choked. 

“Depends on if the other person liked that sort of thing,” he said, glancing sideways at her. The conversation died curtly after that, both of them running over exactly what the other person had said in their minds, while Feuilly and Bahorel squabbled over the money they were sorting through.

Enjolras and Grantaire were on their fifth witness, and the energy drink had finally begun to kick in.

“My—hand—is shaking,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire laughed manically. 

“We can interview twenty thousand witnesses! I want to go for a run! I never run,” Grantaire said, grinning. “I want to get in a fight in a back-alley. Hey, Apollo, want to go fight?”

“N-no, I want to interview the entire bank, finish my paperwork and lead three thousand protests.”

With that, the next suspect walked into the break-room, looking nervously at the two manic detectives. 

“I—I didn’t kill anyone,” the man said, sitting down in the chair across from them. “I hate death. I wasn’t working yesterday. I can’t even play videogames!”

“Not even Pac man?” Grantaire asked. “Now I definitely suspect you.”

“I mean, Super Mario,” the man said shakily.

“So you lied, then,” Enjolras stated, staring at him hard.

“I-I-I—does that count? Ididn’tknowitcountedpleasedon’tarrestme—“

“—what’s your name?” Grantaire asked. 

“J-Jules Alphonse,” he stammered, and Enjolras checked through the name list. 

“Go,” Enjolras said.

“Thank you for your time,” Grantaire added.

Once the man left the room, Enjolras slowly turned to Grantaire, grinning at him. “Do you think if I took enough of these, I’d live forever?”

“Your heart would stop, probably,” Grantaire replied. “Next!” he shouted, and Enjolras elbowed him in the ribs for being so loud.   
Two hours later, the entire bank had been interviewed, some people twice. Nonetheless, they only two suspects that vaguely fit the profile, and those two had not been working the day M. Abelard had died. 

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Enjolras said, once they were back at the precinct, and a fatigued Combeferre nodded at them and Courfeyrac groaned.

“I’m so embarrassed,” Courfeyrac said, pulling out three empty file folders and opening them over his head, leaving only a few dark curls exposed as he buried himself in his desk. 

Grantaire grinned at the display, then flipped through his notes yet again. “The problem is, the bank is complicated. Here, we’ll act it out. Courfeyrac can be M. Abelard, I’ll be the average bank teller, and Enjolras can be Mlle. Shasa.”

Enjolras stood behind Grantaire, who pulled out his wallet. Enjolras did the same, putting his wallet near the edge of Grantaire’s desk, leaning over Grantaire in the process, Enjolras’ chest brushing against Grantaire’s head. Courfeyrac peered up from his paper pile, raising an eyebrow as Grantaire made a point of focusing on the re-enactment, not the man behind him. 

“So, I’m watching you, making sure you’re as efficient as possible, because I have a stick up my ass,” Enjolras said.

“I’m glad you finally admit it,” Grantaire said. “The victim walks up to me, and I have, at max, five seconds to hand them the exact amount of money they want. In that time period, I have to cover the money with aconite. There is no way I can coat it ahead of time, because the machine gives it to me.”

“Difficult,” Enjolras said. “There’s no way you can apply it in front of them, either, not with a paint brush or dropper. The only way to do it would be—“ Enjolras picked up Grantaire’s hands for the second time that day, rubbing them against his own. “—putting the aconite on your gloves before your shift.”

“Then it would get on everyone’s money, and there’s only been three murders,” Grantaire said, linking their pinky fingers briefly before Enjolras pulled away. 

“Right, but you could have multiple pairs of gloves.”

“And swap them between clients? Someone would notice.”

“Not if—“ Enjolras grabbed Grantaire’s hands again, shoving them under his desk. “Courfeyrac, can you see what we’re doing?”

“You are giving Grantaire a hand job?”

Enjolras’ expression darkened. “In that case, you obviously can’t.”

“While you’re down there, can you scratch my thigh?” Grantaire asked, and Enjolras scowled at him. “Hey, you were the one being handsy.”

“But that’s still inefficient,” Combeferre pointed out, saving Enjolras. “That would take you at least ten seconds between clients.”

“That could be shortened,” Grantaire said, “if I wear gloves in layers.”

“How?” Enjolras asked, skeptically, withdrawing his grip.

“Okay, so layer one, I cover with aconite. Then I put on a second pair of gloves on top of the aconite pair.”

“This is liquid aconite,” Enjolras pointed out, grabbing Grantaire’s hands again. “If you want the effect to be instant, you have to put a fair amount on the bills. There would be transfer between the two pairs of gloves, which would lessen the effect.”

“Not unless you put a ton on,” Grantaire said, grabbing at his wallet, taking out a bill. Enjolras glanced down at the wallet furtively, and was about to comment on the picture he saw peeking out of the fabric when Grantaire shut it again, having grabbed a fifty dollar bill. “Now,” Grantaire said, placing the bill flat on his palm, sliding the fingers of his other hand across it, tossing it across the table at Enjolras’ wallet. 

“But if you put a lot on, your gloves will be wet,” Enjolras pointed out. “When you went through M. Abelard’s wallet, it was damp, remember? So the killer,” Enjolras grabbed Grantaire’s hands again, holding them upright and streaking fingers down Grantaire’s wrist, “would have poisoned themselves, potentially.”

“These murders are a lot more risky than just shooting the victims,” Grantaire nodded. “But they are willing to risk their own lives to commit them this way.”

“So they can literally kill the rich with their own money,” Combeferre contributed. 

“That’s a hell of a lot of effort for a metaphor,” Eponine pointed out, striding in the room and sitting effortlessly on Combeferre’s desk. “I blame television, these days. Everything is poetic. Nothing is just random and violent.”

“There was definitely a considerable amount of forethought put into this,” Combeferre said, although he was distracted by Eponine’s back, which was tipping towards him. 

“So it was definitely one of the bank employees, then,” Eponine said.

“Not necessarily,” a disembodied voice added, and Eponine groaned as Montparnasse strolled casually into homicide.

“You made bail?” she asked. “Call someone, we need to raise the price.”

“I’m a thief, darling, you’ll never be able to charge more than I can pay,” Montparnasse said. “I swear, you lot. We should switch jobs.”

“You said not necessarily,” Enjolras cut in. “Explain.”

“Well, how well does the manager know their employees?”

“Not at all. She’s worried only about efficiency.”

“Then, if someone took a sick day, how easy would it be for a civilian to show up in their uniform, wearing their name-tag, kill whoever they wanted, and leave?” Montparnasse asked.

“Wouldn’t their coworkers notice?”

“No. People get fired and hired at banks all the time,” he said. “Believe me, I spend a lot of time at places like that. That’s capitalism. But answer this: would someone who works at a bank really be disgruntled with the rich? Or would someone intelligent, but unemployed be more angry?”

“The likely hood of that happening is so low—“ Courfeyrac began.

“—he has a point,” Combeferre cut in. “While the profile wasn’t age, gender or race specific, it doesn’t fit anyone that gets paid more than minimum wage. Those employees make a decent amount, all things considered.”

“They are likely insane, they won’t see things clearly—“ Grantaire started, then paused. “—but. But how would someone like that get hired in the first place? Obviously they are intelligent, but these employees are screened.”

“Bull,” Enjolras said. “There is no way this is possible. Any of it. At all. No one can just walk off the street and into a job just because they have a uniform. Not without help.”

“Go over the security tapes, that’s all I’m saying,” Montparnasse said. “Combeferre, invertebrates—I hope the next time I see all of you I’m in fuzzy handcuffs, and not the other variety.” With that, Montparnasse strode from the room, tipping a phantom hat to everyone.

“I hate that guy,” Courfeyrac commented, slumping under his papers. “Especially considering he walks in, acts like he and Combeferre are best friends, and then insults everyone. I’m Combeferre’s best friend, and Enjolras. We’re his best friends—“ he broke off into a continual grumble, burying himself even further in the paper on his desk.

“I’m beat,” Grantaire said, raising an eyebrow at Enjolras.

“If you go, I go. You drove me,” Enjolras pointed out. 

“Willing to give up early?” 

“Yes,” was the grateful reply, and after a minute of tedious filing, Enjolras followed Grantaire out of the precinct, embracing the   
night air, which was still full of the heat of the day. Enjolras did his best not to fall asleep in the car, but found himself being awoken after what seemed like years later to the scent of pencil shavings and whiskey being pressed against his face, and Enjolras rubbed against it.

“We’re at your place,” Grantaire murmured, and Enjolras abruptly opened his eyes, realising he had shoved his face gracelessly into Grantaire’s hoodie. 

“Oh, God,” Enjolras groaned, holding the hoodie back, scowling at it and Grantaire. 

Ten minutes later, when Enjolras was reclining in bed, staring up at the ceiling, he noted, vaguely, that the hoodie was still in his hand. What this meant, he was well aware of. His last word, before he drifted off to sleep, was a distinct, “Shit,” that echoed through the empty apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few of you requested seeing more of the Amis, so here they are! I am a big Combeferre/Eponine shipper, for those that have noticed, but there will be some Marius/Cosette fairly soon. As always, thank you for your fantastic comments and kudos, and I hope you are enjoying the story so far!


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Grantaire had just begun getting used to waking up in his new apartment—it was unusual to be woken up by an alarm clock and not a nurse that had a soft spot for him, although certain things remained the same. He groaned out an intangible name, tried to remember where he was, pinched his nose and reached for a bottle of painkillers. 

He had just climbed out of the shower when there was a hurried knock at the door. This elicited a sigh from him, a tightening of the towel around his waist, and he padded over to the door with wet feet. Dark curls still clung to his forehead, and he was happy to note that a particularly troublesome flake of paint had come off his arm. There were faded scars running along the crook of his elbow on his left arm, each one of them faint pin-pricks; he had thought through getting a tattoo to cover them up, but he hadn’t thought of a design yet. A tattoo also meant that undercover work would be twice as difficult, once Narcotics took him back, and he was hesitant to jump into anything permanent enough to hold him back. 

When he pulled the door open, a well-groomed Enjolras stood on the other side. There was a long, pregnant pause as Enjolras looked him up and down, swallowed, then promptly shut the door. 

Grantaire pulled it open again, raising an eyebrow at Enjolras, who had turned a patriotic shade of red. The blonde stared determinedly at the ceiling, squinting at the patterns left there by a previous tenant. “Something happened to your sweater,” was the first thing he said, and Grantaire chuckled.

“Hi, Apollo.”

“Dionysus,” Enjolras replied, still taking in the ceiling.

“Do you want to come in?”

“Do you want to put clothes on?”

“Do the two have to be mutually exclusive?”

“Yes.”

“You are missing an opportunity that would make porn directors cry,” Grantaire informed him, but turned around and disappeared into his bedroom, pulling on a pair of boxers and jeans quickly. When he returned, Enjolras was leaning against the door frame, looking as though he could have been modelling something if not for the obvious discomfort on his face. 

Awkwardly, he held a paper shopping bag in his hands, twirling it from time to time.

“What’s that?” Grantaire asked, still shirtless, putting coffee grinds into the machine, pulling out a second mug and gesturing for Enjolras to come in. The scent of coffee was the strongest lure, although more than a small part of Grantaire was disappointed that him in a towel hadn’t done it.

“I got you a new sweater,” Enjolras said, avoiding Grantaire’s eyes, staring pointedly at the cup of coffee he had been offered instead, his jaw set.

“Uh, thanks—“ Grantaire began, pulling a similar looking hoodie from the bag. “—you know this one is a lot more expensive than   
the original, right?”

“I hoped that would compensate for any emotional attachment you had to it,” he stated.

“Not too many people get attached to clothes,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras let out a hollow laugh, his eyes flickering around the room in a silent panic. “What happened to it, anyway?”

“It just fell apart when I put it in the washing machine,” Enjolras deadpanned. “Loose threads, lots of holes.”

“You should have just thrown it out, you didn’t have to get me a new one,” Grantaire said. “In red.”

“You mentioned—“ Enjolras began, but then started drinking the coffee in front of him, cutting himself off with the warm liquid. “—yeah. It’s going to be hot again, today.”

“I know. The pavement was steaming when I woke up,” Grantaire remarked. “Which begs the question: why are you wearing a long sleeve shirt?”

“I tried to turn up my air-conditioner last night, because it was too damn hot, but it’s old. The crank snapped off. My apartment is cold, long story short.”

“I may show up half-naked after work, then.”

“Please don’t.”

Grantaire smirked at him. “Ah, I’ll just have to go somewhere else where they’ll appreciate me in the nude.”

“I’m sure there are plenty of places,” Enjolras commented, staring pointedly at the counter. The intensity of his gaze meant he missed how Grantaire’s fingers raked the hoodie and the way his palm smoothed the marks out a moment later, taking in the fabric. 

“Was that a compliment?” Grantaire laughed, and it felt as though his chest was filling with bubbles.

“A back-handed one.”

“Those are the best kind. They are the only ones you can believe.”

“They are my favourite, too,” Enjolras remarked, smiling softly when he thought of Grantaire’s biting remarks.

For three minutes, a comfortable silence lapsed between them. It wasn’t impossible for Grantaire to drift into a world where this was normal, where Enjolras drank coffee Grantaire made him and fell asleep next to him in the car. It was a world where there were murders, naturally, and an unenjoyable lack of drugs, but it was the sort of thing he’d dream of when he was drifting in and out of consciousness on a pull-out couch during the nights before rehab.

“We should get going,” Grantaire sighed, finishing his cup of coffee and retreating to grab a t-shirt, pulling it over his head, shaking loose his still damp curls as he did, and Enjolras blinked for a second longer than what was normal. He thanked Grantaire for the coffee by putting both of their cups in the dishwasher, nodding and feeling shame creep up under his chest as he saw Grantaire shrug on the new hoodie. 

“I think you look good in red,” Enjolras said, half-biting his tongue.

“Do I?” Grantaire asked. “I’ll have to see you in green, then.” This was a problematic statement, as it made Grantaire distinctly think of Enjolras either covered in leaves as some sort of angry elf, or on his Hulk sheets he had until he was around fifteen. 

“I’d probably look like I have the plague.”

“We could work with that, you know. Make witnesses talk by threatening to put them in close proximity with you.”

“Don’t we already do that with my people skills?”

“No, we usually play angry cop, drunk cop,” Grantaire said, swinging on his holster. “I sway in their general direction and you say   
offensive things in order to bring them justice. Tell me, do you use that as a pickup line?”

“I don’t use pick-up lines.”

“No, I imagine you just walk into rooms,” Grantaire remarked. 

“I don’t know why you keep going on about that,” he sighed, leaving the apartment with Grantaire, enjoying their close proximity when Grantaire locked up behind them. “Not that many people find me attractive.”

“Are you kidding me? You must live in such blissful ignorance. You get more catcalls than a nudist that stumbled off of their colony.”

“Three mentions of nudity and it’s not even eight o’clock. I’ll have you know I am almost constantly fully clothed,” Enjolras stated. “People do not state how they feel about my physical appearance.”

“No one?”

“No one.”

“Not even when you don’t say anything?”

Enjolras glared at him.

“No, but answer this honestly—have you ever been on a date?”

“I don’t date.”

“Why not?”

“I—I prefer just sex,” Enjolras said, crossing arms over his chest, pressing his lips together tightly. 

“Really? You?”

“Yes.”

“Is this about that person that doesn’t return your affections?” Grantaire asked. The apartment building was quickly descended,   
and Enjolras sat in the driver’s seat of his car, his lips remaining as tight as they were before. Grantaire rolled his eyes. “My Apollo-gies. I didn’t mean to poke a sore spot. For what it’s worth, they don’t know what they are missing.”

“Yes they do,” Enjolras muttered, staring straight ahead as he started the car, tearing towards the precinct. “I’m hardly what anyone would think of as a ‘catch.’”

“Why’s that?”

“Our first day of working together, I tackled you to the floor,” Enjolras pointed out.

“Some people are into that sort of thing,” Grantaire replied. 

“I have threatened to arrest someone because they were pissing me off.”

“Everyone has flaws—“

“—in high school, when I got sent out into the hall for being too argumentative, I built a barricade in front of the door—“

“—some people like the bad boy type—“ Grantaire grinned.

“—my last partner and I threw furniture at each other—“

“—it takes two to hurl a desk—“

“—when Cosette tried to put me in an anger management class, I told her I’d end up confessing case secrets—“

Enjolras found himself cut off by Grantaire’s laugh, which began as a small thing and then filled the entire car. When Grantaire wiped his eye in mirth, Enjolras felt a similar smile break across his own features, and he continued.

“—when I was eight, I told Courfeyrac’s dad that his lifestyle would be unsustainable in our current economy. When I was nine, I explained to Combeferre that I planned on becoming President so that I could legalise hour-long recesses, to which he replied that the people would rise with me, despite the fact that the main demographic it would affect would be under voting age. At twelve, I stole a flare gun to give my gold fish an exciting funeral. When I was fifteen, I’d chase after local drug dealers on my bike at night, but I recorded the sound of sirens and attached lights to it, so they thought I was the police.”

Grantaire was wheezing by now, and when Enjolras finally stopped, he collected himself. After a moment of shaky inhales, he replied with, “You sound ideal to me.”

“Your ideals are fairly skewed—“

“—we live in a skewed world, and for what my humble opinion is worth, I adore you.”

“Ah,” was all Enjolras said in response, flushing slightly. “What about you?”

“Me? I was nowhere near as exciting as you. I joined the police force because it was the cheapest option, and the one my parents would be most disappointed by,” Grantaire explained. 

“Are you upset you joined, then?” 

“No. First time I had ever had friends.”

“I’d miss you.”

“Sorry?”

“Remember when you said that they picked the guys no one cared about to work undercover? I’d miss you, if you never came back.”

Grantaire said nothing in response, but tugged stubbornly at the strings of his hoodie. Forty five seconds later, he replied with, “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Makes it hard to go back.”

“Don’t, then.”

“You want me to stay?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Enjolras chewed out the seconds in between, then added, “Please.”

Distantly, a siren was audible. They pulled into the parking lot, Enjolras frowning intently when it became apparent someone had taken his spot and letting out several curses, swearing more vehemently when he had to park next to a large car. He let out a few arrogant remarks about bigger cars being worse for the environment until Grantaire cut him off with a,

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“I’ll stay,” he said, gazing at Enjolras, “if you pay for dinner.”

“That pessimistic about us working late?”

“We have to go over hours of security footage.”

“Chinese ok?”

“Sure,” Grantaire replied, climbing out of the car, Enjolras following quickly after. 

OoOoO

Four hours later, all they had discerned was that M. Abelard and Grosvenor had both used the third teller from the right, although who that was more or less remained a mystery. The cameras focused primarily on the customers faces, and not those of the tellers. 

“I brought work records!” Marius chimed, placing a folder on Enjolras’ desk, where both of them were crammed around Grantaire’s laptop. Enjolras had placed a hand over his nose, and Grantaire had his chin against the wood of the desk in the eternal position of defeat. 

“Thanks,” Grantaire mumbled, and Marius patted his curls sympathetically. Before he could turn to leave, however, he found   
himself struck to the ground by the presence of Cosette, who walked into the room casually. In Marius’ opinion, however, small flowers sprouted wherever she stepped, as though he reasonable heels had fertilizer on the bottom of them. He looked at Courfeyrac and then Grantaire in a moment of brief panic, then schooled his features as she addressed them.

“Enjolras, Grantaire, Pontmercy—anything?” 

“We know the poison, how it was used, have a rough idea as to who applied it and how they pulled that off,” Enjolras listed on   
each finger, “and with the reports, we should get a better idea.”

“It says that a Yvonne Vachel had a shift during the murder, as she usually did,” Grantaire said. “She’s—she’s in a few of these records, but I don’t remember interviewing her, do you?”

Enjolras shook his head, then snatched the papers away from Grantaire greedily. “She’s on the payroll.”

“So, basically, you only have one suspect who you can’t confirm is the killer,” Cosette said, arching an eyebrow. “And you only have two days before National Security sweeps down on this and makes us look like fools, correct?”

“Correct,” Grantaire said.

“So how did Yvonne Vachel slip your attention before?”

“She—her boss—“ Enjolras tried, then looked at Grantaire with weary eyes.

Cosette glared at the two of them. 

“On the plus side, however, little to no furniture has been broken,” Grantaire pointed out.

“Mlle. Fauchelevent,” Combeferre interrupted, “perhaps you need a break. Give them a few hours, then ask what they have. Here,” he stood up, pushing Marius towards her, “Marius will treat you to a cup of coffee. In the meantime, Courf and I will assist Enjolras and Grantaire.” 

Courfeyrac grinned and saluted Cosette bravely, while a blush spread out across Marius’ features and a small smile played on the corner of his lips.

Cosette groaned quietly, then consented. “I want a report in three hours, gentlemen. Pontmercy, you can buy me a long lunch.”

“Happy to oblige!” Marius chirped, and a grin burst onto his face as though the sun had finally breached the clouds. She didn’t look particularly impressed with Combeferre’s proposal, but when the two turned and walked away, a flicker of a smile was visible. This broadened into a proper grin when Marius offered her his arm, and she replied by mimicking the expression, making Marius take the crook of her elbow instead.

“Combeferre, you have great game,” Courfeyrac stated. “Want to hook me up with Jehan?”

“If only I didn’t enjoy watching you embarrass yourself so much,” Combeferre supplied. 

“We need to find Vachel,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire tossed him a phone. Enjolras handed it back to him.

“What’s this, hot potato?” Grantaire asked, thrusting it back towards Enjolras.

“You’re better at it than me,” he said, giving it back to him again.

“Maybe I don’t want to.” The phone was handed back.

“That’s nice.” The phone was put in Grantaire’s pocket.

“This is a mutual partnership—“ Grantaire took it out, pulling open the pocket of Enjolras’ jeans, shoving the phone in there,   
ignoring the leg he brushed against.

Enjolras stood up abruptly, leaning forward so that his chest was level with Grantaire’s nose, then dropping the phone into   
Grantaire’s hood.

“Oh no, you little shit,” Grantaire said, grabbing the hood and the phone in it, standing up and shoving it down Enjolras’ shirt. 

Enjolras hissed when the cold plastic hit his skin then brushed against his nipple, and he had to grab it before it tumbled onto the floor.

“What are they doing?” Courfeyrac whispered to Combeferre.

Combeferre shushed him. “It’s very interesting to observe from a sociological and anthropological perspective—watch as two people who are very bad at expressing feelings attempt to communicate them through an elaborate mating dance.”

Courfeyrac chuckled, then froze when Jehan strode by Homicide, stopping when he spotted Enjolras and Grantaire grappling with each other. The poet frowned, and then intercepted the two just as Enjolras grabbed a belt loop on Grantaire’s jeans with the intention of shoving the phone down his pants.

“What are you doing?” Jehan asked, his voice soft but with audible skepticism present in it.

“Uh—“ Grantaire began.

“—case re-enactment,” Enjolras stated. “We believe this was one of the possible ways the poison could be spread between two people, who were, um—“

“—fighting over a wallet with the poisoned money in it,” Grantaire finished.

“Nerds,” Courfeyrac muttered.

Grantaire extended his hand and Enjolras handed him the phone, the Enjolras smirking at him, knowing he had won. Grantaire found the display amusing—Enjolras could convince him to do anything and everything with the word ‘please’ and with his name attached. The only thing he remained immovable on was staying with Enjolras, he had decided.

The phone rang and rang. Eventually, he reached an answering machine with a woman’s voice and Yvonne Vachel’s name on it and he left a message, although already he felt critical of everything.

“I’ve been thinking about what Montparnasse said,” Grantaire said, sitting down on the edge of Enjolras’ desk, turned so he was visible to everyone.

“There’s your problem right there,” Jehan added, and Courfeyrac smiled.

“No, he had a point,” Grantaire said. “How many hospitals are there in the city? How many are equipped to deal with aconite poisoning?”

“Three and only one of them has the resources to handle that,” Combeferre said. “Beyond just a simple system flush, I mean.”

“Can we call all three and ask if they have an Yvonne Vachel, or a Jane Doe?”

“I’ll call the morgues,” Enjolras said, picking up his own phone and searching for the numbers of local morgues. 

Grantaire began to call hospitals while Combeferre did the same, although before Courfeyrac could, Jehan grabbed his elbow. “Could I speak to you for a moment?” he asked, and Courfeyrac nodded nervously. The two left the room and disappeared into the sections beyond Homicide, and Enjolras didn’t even notice he was short a member.

Within thirty minutes, they had determined Yvonne Vachel was in a hospital in the East part of town, and was in the ICU for minor aconite poisoning. 

“When was she taken in?” Combeferre asked, sitting up in his chair, and Enjolras abruptly hung up on the person he had called in the middle of their dialogue. Grantaire had already called several different sections of the same hospital, disappointed and was beginning to think his theory was incorrect when Combeferre had finally found something, and he felt his heart rise in his chest.

“Three days ago?” Before the murders had been executed, was the answer, and Grantaire automatically began to rule her out as a suspect. It was possible she had accidently poisoned herself if she had worked that day, but apparently she had been taken in during the early hours of the morning from a small amount of exposure to aconite.

Combeferre related everything he had been told, and Grantaire pulled out a pad of paper, scribbling out a timeline.

“Yvonne Vachel, an employee of the Bank that works most regularly in the third teller spot, encountered someone who poisoned her in the early hours of the morning. They gave her a small enough dose that she wouldn’t die, but would be out of the way, and then took her place at work. As she had an employee badge in order to clock in and out, they had to resemble her slightly.”

“So our suspect is a woman,” Enjolras added. “Anyway, then the killer coated the bill in aconite using, presumably, the double-glove method. They coated three, as far as we know, set of bills—Grosvenor’s, whoever Elaine stole the wallet from, and Abelard. After Abelard died, we shut down the bank. But we didn’t interview anyone that went by the name Yvonne Vachel.”

“Did we record who worked at the third teller’s place?” Grantaire asked.

“I began to, but they swap once every hour. Improves efficiency,” Enjolras said, rolling his eyes.

“But all three clients went to the same teller in different hours. Does that mean the double-glove theory is void?”

“More likely than not, the killer timed the rotations so that they were always in the third tellers spot when their desired victims arrived,” Combeferre said. “The bank opened fairly early in the morning, giving them time to get back there.”

Grantaire looked up the banks hours, then managed to time the rotation shifts. “Once an hour, on the dot according to the security cameras, but I can only see them shuffling around and none of their features. What did Vachel look like?”

“Tall, blonde, middle-aged,” Enjolras said, leaning in above Grantaire. “Look, there’s some blonde hair.”

“Here comes Grosvenor,” he muttered, writing down the time.

They flipped through the footage, then found that the killer had switched to what may have been the fifth teller spot after an hour, then back to the third tellers spot again after that.

“There’s Abelard, also at teller three, once the killer is back there, again,” Enjolras stated. “Why not kill anyone that was a client at teller five?”

“Then it would be harder to find them?” Grantaire asked.

“Three victims, teller three,” Combeferre said. “This is an individual that is willing to poison themselves in order to make a point, to convey a message. Everything is a pun, a simile, a metaphor—nothing is accidental. Even Yvonne Vachel may have a point, besides looking like the killer. Why did they pick her? Nothing about this is done because it’s the easiest way to do something.”

“They don’t care if they get caught, then,” Enjolras said.

“They have nothing to lose.”

“We have to interview Vachel,” Grantaire said. “She can possibly give us a description of who poisoned her.”

“She’s still in the ICU,” Combeferre pointed out. 

“Is she conscious?” Enjolras asked.

“Well, yeah, but—“

“—are you coming?” Enjolras asked Combeferre, who exhaled sharply and adjusted his glasses. 

“And what? Sit in the back, where the suspect is supposed to go? Watch you two play footsy? No thank you. If you need something, call me,” he said.

Grantaire smiled softly at him as they left, and Combeferre returned the expression, which was heightened when Eponine strode into Homicide, asking if he had heard anything about Montparnasse, who was on the lamb for the fifth time this week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For barricadestation on tumblr, as promised! Thank you for prompting me, otherwise I may have lost speed, because I can procrastinate things for forever.  
> Anyway, not sure how I feel about this chapter. Kind of filler, I suppose. The next one will have more action, I hope. Thank you for reading as far as you have, and for all your lovely comments and kudos!


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

 

“Is it Feuilly?” Grantaire asked, buckling himself into the passenger side of Enjolras’ car. 

“Is Feuilly who?” Enjolras replied, starting the car with the hospital’s location plugged into his GPS.

“You know,” Grantaire wiggled his eyebrows, “the mystery person who doesn’t return your affections.”

“I thought I made it clear this was personal.”

“Well, maybe I can give them the talk for you, you know. Talk about how great you are. Sing your praises. Mind you, Feuilly and you seem to have too much in common.”

“I don’t think of Feuilly that way,” Enjolras stated. “He’s…Feuilly.”

“And Bahorel is in the picture.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Seriously? You haven’t picked up on that yet?”

“Bahorel and Feuilly?” Enjolras turned a corner sharply, and Grantaire hung onto the door frame.

“Duh—“

“—you keep talking about my unrequited love, but you won’t mention yours.”

“Ah, you figured out the magician’s trick of distraction,” Grantaire smirked. “There’s nothing much to tell, Apollo.”

“You have a speech yesterday about what it was like to sleep with someone else and dream it was them—there must be something to say.”

“I’m a painter, not a writer. My speeches aren’t meant to inflict passion, just sympathy.”

“You want sympathy?”

“Not from everyone.”

“I don’t know what it’s like to want sympathy. I’d want—affection, I suppose.” His fingers shifted awkwardly against the steering wheel.

“I see,” Grantaire said. “So, not Feuilly, then?”

“No.”

“Combeferre?”

Enjolras snorted. “He’s straight.”

“Not all relationships are physical.”

“No, not Combeferre.”

“Courfeyrac?”

Enjolras shot him a look.

“Eponine?”

“Now you are getting ludicrous.”

“Montparnasse?”

“I sincerely hope you are being sarcastic.”

“Good, I’m pretty sure he has something with Combeferre. Do you think they hooked up?”

“Combeferre? And Montparnasse? No, no, I’m sure they haven’t—“

“—nice guys—and I mean ones that are actually nice, not just douche bags—almost always fall for someone edgy. Like  
Combeferre’s thing with Eponine.”

“He can’t like Eponine and Montparnasse—“

“—who says?”

“I don’t know, it’s just—he wouldn’t date a criminal.”

“Even in another universe, where he was a criminal?”

“If he was a criminal, he’d be like Robin Hood,” Enjolras supplied. “No one would actually want to catch him.”

“Okay, so, Jehan?”

“What about Jehan?”

“Is he the guy?”

Enjolras laughed. “No.”

“Too bad, but at the same time, I feel Courfeyrac would win that one. He’s already swaying Jehan, I can feel it.”

“You are so full of bullshit—“

“—Cosette? Marius? Both of them? Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta? Everyone? Patria?”

“You’re grasping at straws,” Enjolras pointed out, smiling when they pulled into the hospital parking lot. When he stepped out ofthe car, however, the expression melted from his face as a bead of sweat ran down his face and hit the tip of his shoe. 

“Oh no, Enjo, you’re an ice statue!” Grantaire declared, and Enjolras elbowed him in the ribs before striding towards the hospital, rolling his eyes at Grantaire, who was several meters behind him. Grantaire had to be sure to neatly fold the hoodie before leaving it on his seat, then checking all the doors before following Enjolras, grinning as he trotted to catch up.

“You’re an idiot. No one is going to steal your hoodie,” Enjolras told him, and Grantaire shrugged. 

“Someone might bleed on it, you never know. Once, a suspect OD’d and I drove them to the hospital, okay, and when I was sitting in the waiting room, some guy came in with a high heel hot glued onto his chest. It was insane!”

“I’m sure we won’t see that—“

“—no, we’ll see something like that. Hospitals are terrifying. And I’m not getting blood on my new, beloved hoodie.”

Enjolras hummed in response, feeling that same emotion of shame creeping over his chest as they spoke to the nurse at the receptionist’s desk. Grantaire still wore his badge lazily around his neck, flashing it occasionally at random passerby for no apparent reason exception to measure their reactions—some people looked afraid, while others just shuffled out of the way, indifferent to his presence.

Within five minutes, they were rushed into Yvonne Vachel’s room, and Grantaire pulled out a sketchbook as the nurse woke the sleeping woman, who turned around restlessly, pale blonde hair splaying out on her pillow. When she finally did stir, Enjolras immediately noticed he had never seen a woman who looked so tired or weary of the body they were lying in.

“Mlle. Vachel? We’re with the police. We believe someone poisoned you,” Grantaire said, glancing up at her from the sketchbook, his pencil at the ready.

“Should’ve let them finish the job,” she groaned. “I’ve never felt worse in my entire life.”

“The person who did this to you killed three others,” Enjolras said. “We believe by taking your place at work, including using your ID. We need to know exactly where you were the night you were poisoned.”

“I was hardly out clubbing,” she remarked, rubbing the fatigued skin under her eyes. “I was with my girlfriend.”

“Who?”

“She’s married.”

“Irrelevant,” Enjolras stated.

“Olivia,” Yvonne sighed. “I was with Olivia. She drove me to the hospital, too. This isn’t her fault.”

“What’s her last name?”

“No clue. She preferred to keep personal details out of our relationship—before you comment, I know it was screwed up, and I told her so. But what can you do? She was rich, really rich. Hated it.”

“Why’s that?” Grantaire asked.

“She,” Vachel groaned, propping herself up slightly. “She came from a rough background. From what I gathered, her little sister was taken out of her parent’s custody just after Olivia turned eighteen, and she couldn’t win custody. Then she married some rich guy, to get her sister back, but by then the sister had disappeared. Ran away, I gathered.”

“Do you know the sister’s name?”

“Uh—Al—no, wait, um—Ellen? No, no, Elaine. That was it. Elaine.”

Enjolras shot Grantaire a look, and Grantaire scribbled it down on his notepad. “We’re going to need you to describe Olivia.”

“Why? She didn’t do anything. She drove me here.”

“Were the two of you alone when you began to feel nauseous?”

“Yeah, but, the doctor said I may have taken in the aconite from anything…”

“Did you come into close contact with any bills?”

“No. We were at my apartment, we were having drinks, I don’t think she—no. I don’t believe it.” 

“Did you ever leave her alone with the drinks?”

“I—“ she paused, chewing her lower lip. “I don’t think so. I can’t remember.”

“Please describe her, anyway,” Grantaire said, his tone reassuring. “Even if she didn’t do anything, we’ll need her statement about what happened.” Enjolras shot him a skeptical look, his eyes flicking decisively to Vachel’s blonde hair and then meeting Grantaire with a look.

“Um—well, she used to be dark haired, and pale, with blue eyes.”

“Used to be?”

“Last Saturday she asked me to dye her hair blonde.”

“And did you?”

“Yes.”

“What shade?” Enjolras asked, and Grantaire repressed the urge to smile at the mental image of Enjolras memorising the variations of blonde at a drug store, his notepad in hand.

“Like, my colour? Sort of? It was hard work, because she has this really thick, dark curly hair,” Vachel coughed, covering her mouth, then groaning and leaning back against the pillow. 

“Did she do her eyebrows, too?” Enjolras asked, and Grantaire found himself biting the inside of his mouth in order to swallow his grin. It sounded as though Enjolras was swapping beauty tips.

“No, the box said not to,” Vachel said, and Enjolras nodded. 

“What was her body like?” Grantaire asked.

Vachel gave him a concerned look, then continued onwards with a cautious, “Thin. She lost weight recently—stress, maybe. Olivia didn’t want to talk about it. I assumed it was because of her marriage, or she’d heard something back from her sister.”

“What was wrong with her sister?” Enjolras asked.

“She mentioned Elaine was an addict, and that she stole.”

“Was she angry about this, or towards Elaine?” Grantaire queried, jotting down as she continued to speak.

“No. Sad, if anything, but never angry. Mind you, she was good at blaming everyone but herself. Her marriage was her husband’s fault, Elaine was the system’s fault, and everything else was the fault of the rich. She hated most men, would sometimes say that they held women down—but not in a calm way. She filled herself with fire when she got like that,” Vachel sighed, winced, then hit a button to request more pain killers. “Do yourself a favour, gentlemen—never get poisoned.”

Enjolras nodded curtly at her, but Grantaire knew before they had even left the room he would be heading down to the security office, requesting all tapes for the time period Vachel was in the hospital and her room. Grantaire headed in that direction pre-emptively, and Enjolras raised an eyebrow at him.

“Are you thinking the same thing?” Enjolras asked, and Grantaire shook his head.

“No, it’s just easy to spot doubt on your face. But even you have to admit, it’s unlikely she slipped out of her room, committed those murders and then return to her room again without being noticed. All with aconite in her system, at that.”

“She could have had someone do it for her.”

“Isn’t that a stretch?”

“Not really. Think of all the generalisations she used, the way she only knew her lover and Elaine’s first names—she didn’t know who they were, but she knew all these details about their lives?”

“Not impossible—“

“—no, but come on,” Enjolras said. “I can tell you a great story about my first kiss—“

“—Combeferre, last week?”

“But,” Enjolras stressed the word, “If I don’t tell you the person’s full name, are you going to buy it? If you can’t look them up on Facebook, would you believe me?”

“For you? No. You probably have their social security number memorised. For me? I can’t even remember the last person I kissed.”

“Must have been a while, then,” Enjolras remarked, and Grantaire grinned.

“You are getting wittier just from hanging out with me.”

“No, my patience has just been worn down to the point that I’m on your level of bad jokes.”

“Okay, but the lover story makes sense. If Olivia is real—don’t get me wrong, I’m not entirely convinced—she could seduce Yvonne, dye her hair so that they look alike, kill her off—which failed—and then no one would ever know who she was or what she looked like.”

“The hypothetical lover is married, though,” Enjolras stated. “Her spouse would notice her new hair. Or that she would have symptoms of poisoning herself. Unless, of course, she went conveniently AWOL. ”

“Maybe he reported her missing?” Grantaire suggested, and Enjolras shrugged. 

“Worth a shot. We could also search the system, see if an Elaine pops up—“

“—that is a common name,” Enjolras pointed out. “Even if we add ‘Olivia’ to the search parameters.”

“Call Combeferre, ask if he can do that. In the meantime, I propose we go visit Mlle. Vachel’s apartment, because that was presumably where the poisoning and the hair-dyeing occurred.”

“We’ll have to get a warrant—“

“—shhh,” Grantaire said, pressing a finger to Enjolras’ lips. “Pretty lips shouldn’t say such negative things.”

“We are getting a warrant,” Enjolras said, leaning in close to Grantaire. Grantaire retracted the finger, leaving it floating in the space between the two of them, feeling Enjolras’ breath buffer it slightly. Before blood could redirect its flow, he surrendered. 

“Fine. Party pooper,” Grantaire said. 

OoOoO

“Ooh, basement apartment,” Grantaire muttered. “Nothing good ever happens in basements. Where do we always go? Basements.”

“You didn’t find the basement crack den scary,” Enjolras said, opening the door with the key the manager had given him reluctantly moments earlier.

“Crack addicts are more predictable than public service employees,” Grantaire declared, shuffling behind Enjolras as they opened the door, peering into the darkened apartment. After three seconds of darkness, Enjolras hit the light switch with gloved fingers, adjusting the mask over his face and glaring at Grantaire, who had yet to put his on. 

Grantaire sighed, pulling the strings around his ears, staring at himself in the hall mirror, grumbling. “This is not a good look for me.”

“I like it.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, your mouth is covered.”

“You can’t tell, but I’m smiling,” Grantaire said. In fact, Enjolras had noticed the crinkle of skin around Grantaire’s eyes, but he only hummed in response. “What time is it? I’m starving.”

“Five,” Enjolras replied curtly, entering the small kitchen, glancing around at the pots, pans and glasses that had been left. “Musichetta will be here soon.”

Grantaire glanced over at the dishes, frowning. “I wonder who did my dishes.”

“What?”

“When I came back from undercover. I had an apartment. Left a bunch of dishes in my sink—I completely forgot about them until just now. Do you think someone did them for me? The next tenant? The landlord? Maybe they just threw them out.”

After a pause, Enjolras asked, “What was the explanation for you being gone? Where did they say you went?”

“They said I died. Shooting, probably, something like that,” Grantaire shrugged, still looking at the dishes. 

“Someone probably did them, then,” he decided. 

“Sort of sad, if you think about it. Three years of my life, with only a few tiny scars on my arms and some dishes as mementos,” Grantaire said.

“If it’s any consolation, I only have more books. Not even that many more books. Plenty of partners, but they won’t look back on me fondly,” Enjolras picked up a plate, turning it over in his hands. 

“I will,” Grantaire stated, bumping his shoulder affectionately against Enjolras’. 

“We should have talked more, back when we were in the Academy.” Suddenly, he began to laugh. “Actually, you would have driven me nuts.”

“Would’ve been good for you.” The skin around Grantaire’s eyes wrinkled. In response, Enjolras leaned against him, pressing his head against the side of Grantaire’s, blond curls dipping into dark ones. 

Grantaire was still, taking in the other man’s heat for a moment. He had every intention of reaching around Enjolras to place a hand on his shoulder, but before he could do so, the door knob to the front door jiggled.

“Weird,” Enjolras muttered, standing up straight again. “Musichetta said she would need an hour or so to get equipment.”

“Could that be Olivia?”

“Fuck,” Enjolras swore. “We don’t have enough for an arrest. If she knows we were here, she might destroy other evidence—“

The sound of a key sliding scrabbling against the metal was audible. 

“I have an idea,” Grantaire said, pulling off his and Enjolras’ masks and gloves, shoving them into a fruit bowl. “I need you to sit on the counter.”

“What—“

“—just do it,” he muttered. Enjolras instantly hauled himself up onto the counter, facing Grantaire, who exhaled sharply. “Wrap your legs around my waist.”

“I—“ the key slid in the hole, and the lock clicked back into the door. Enjolras swallowed, wrapping his legs around Grantaire’s waist, grabbing the other man’s hair and tugging him into a kiss. 

Grantaire definitely wished that this interaction occurred in very different circumstances. Normally, he would have been ecstatic for Enjolras to be on a counter and wrapped around him, his hands raking up Enjolras’ back, finding every individual rib. He could feel Enjolras’ shaky breaths exhaled into his mouth and too-loud heart beats reverberating in both of their chests, pounding out to an invisible beat.

As footsteps became audible on the linoleum floor, Enjolras pulled closer, ruffling Grantaire’s hair more and letting out a quiet moan into his mouth, and Grantaire felt his nerves stutter in response. 

“Oh, shit,” a female voice said, and Grantaire made a show of flicking his eyes up, Enjolras turning around to meet the gaze of a very shocked looking woman.

Who was, in turn, a very shocked looking housekeeper, based on her uniform. 

Grantaire felt himself go beet red, the taste of Enjolras still thick on his lips. 

Enjolras gave her a baleful look. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he said with authority: “Madame, this is a crime scene.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, so I've returned from semi-hiatus! Technically I promised to post this on Friday, but does 1 AM Saturday come close enough? Anyway, not sure this chapter had the right feel to it. Lil' bit more action in this one though, considering we're three chapters from the end!  
> Thank you for waiting, everyone! Your comments, kudos and messages have been lovely and encouraging.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Grantaire’s chest had never been so tight. He was embarrassed, of course, but what shocked him was how calm Enjolras was—he could feel Enjolras’ back muscles tighten under his fingertips, and his pounding heartbeat, but Enjolras showed no signs of shame. He fit perfectly on Grantaire’s impromptu pedestal, glancing behind himself casually with his hand still in Grantaire’s hair, curls wrapped around his fingers as if locks could beg him not to leave.

“Oh, shit,” the maid stammered. “I—bye,” she said, quickly leaving. As soon as the front door shut, Enjolras let go of Grantaire to jump down off of the counter, heading towards his crime scene kit to pull on a new mask and pair of gloves, passing Grantaire some too.

“No glove, no love?” Grantaire asked, and Enjolras squinted at him with distaste. “I’m sorry about that. I should have thought of a better plan.”

“It was effective.”

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you—“

“—I’m not embarrassed.”

“It—um, it was unprofessional of me,” Grantaire said, chewing out the phrase.

“You did it to protect the integrity of the crime scene. That’s very professional.”

“I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried about anything,” Enjolras said.

“Then why are you talking like that?”

“Because you’re embarrassed,” Enjolras continued, adjusting his glove and then bending down to examine the base board. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at—“

“—do you think she consumed the aconite, or it just touched her?”

“Quit being dismissive, we’re having a conversation,” Grantaire said, bending down to the same level as Enjolras, looking at the base board with equal interest. 

Enjolras chewed the inside of his cheek, briefly, then swabbed the base board, humming under his breath. Finally, he inhaled and then said, “I was under the impression you were ashamed to be seen with me in a romantic way. It—upset me. I didn’t expect it to. I apologise.”

“What, I get three seconds of emotion and then you bottle it up again?” Grantaire asked. 

“Yeah.”

“Appropriately stoic of you, I guess,” he said, sighing behind his mask. “For what it’s worth, I was ashamed to have anyone find me with my tongue down someone else’s throat at a crime scene. Not because it was you. Actually, of all the people for me to have my tongue down their throat at a crime scene, I’m happy it was you.”

Enjolras let out a small sound that could have been mistaken for a chuckle.

“I mean, I probably would have quit my job out of embarrassment if it was Combeferre.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“He’s a good kisser.” Before Grantaire’s eyebrows could shoot up any higher, Enjolras continued with, “Truth or dare when we were six.”

“You’ve obviously gained experience since then.”

“You’d be surprised,” Enjolras remarked, and Grantaire laughed.

“You’re an excellent kisser, for what it’s worth.”

“You’re pretty good, too.”

Enjolras was, of course, well aware it was the best kiss he had ever had, but he wasn’t about to go blurting that out. All things considered, he didn’t have too many other people to compare it to. 

He opened his mouth slightly, and he could feel words tingling on the edge of his tongue when a nervous laugh escaped, instead. At first it was halting, but then he tipped his head back and let it peal out, much to Grantaire’s confusion and enjoyment.  
“What’s so funny?”

“Vidocq,” Enjolras replied with.

“Who—“

“—did you fail history? He founded the National Police, more or less. Was a criminal turned private investigator and then went on to inspire some of the greater French writers.”

“Which writers?”

“Balzac, Hu—anyway, he used some unorthodox techniques, but I think this would take the cake.”

“I’m sure he’d be proud,” Grantaire remarked, and Enjolras laughed. 

“Are you kidding me? We’d be his favourites.”

Grantaire bumped their shoulders together, Enjolras allowing the light jostle until there was a knock at the door, followed by Musichetta in a fresh pair of heels standing above them.

“Gentlemen,” she began, “there are gloves and masks in the fruit bowl.”

Enjolras glanced over. “Correct.”

“Why are they there?” she asked, her voice carrying a false patience.

“They have ambitions of getting recycled into fruit flavoured condoms,” Grantaire stated. “The first step is complete. Enjolras and I are merely bearing witness as they begin their metamorphosis.”

“I’m going to take them out of the fruit bowl, okay?” she said slowly. “And then I am going to request you don’t leave your stuff lying around in crime scenes. Politely. Because next time I’ll inform Cosette, and she won’t be as polite.”

“Point made,” Enjolras tossed in. After a few seconds of silence, he asked, “Grantaire—“

“—yes?”

“If we were secret lovers—“

“—how hypothetical is this?” Musichetta interjected.

“—how would you poison me?” Enjolras finished, sending Musichetta a baleful look over his mask. 

“Without getting aconite on myself? It’s difficult, because we’d be touching. I mean, toothbrush might work, but then you might kiss me before it takes effect and share the poison.”

“Vachel was taken to the ER at two am,” Enjolras stated, flipping through his notes. “If Olivia is responsible, how would she poison Vachel lightly enough that she could drive her to the hospital?”

“What’s something only Vachel would touch? At least, skin contact.”

“Mug?”

“I’ll check all the dishes,” Musichetta sighed. “But that might be too dramatic. What about perfume, and lipstick? Both of those have skin contact involved.”

“No, because Olivia could breathe that in or kiss Vachel, and then they’d both go down,” Grantaire pointed out. 

“Two am,” Enjolras muttered, and Grantaire followed his gaze.

“If we were lovers, would we be awake at two am?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras frowned. “I don’t think so.”

“Pillow,” Musichetta said. “You—they—wouldn’t share pillows. The fabric would absorb the poison to the extent that it would leech into Vachel’s skin slowly, meaning she wouldn’t need medical attention until later on.”

Enjolras and Grantaire darted into the adjoining bedroom, staring at the queen bed that had been left with rumpled sheets and in disarray. Each swabbed a pillow, labelling the evidence bags they were dropped into, closing them tightly. 

“I thought of something,” Grantaire said, measuring every syllable. “We said before that Elaine was an accident, right? Well, what if she was an ironic accident?”

“Come again?”

“Olivia kills because her sister—Elaine—was taken from her. She kills rich men in response. But what if her use of poison was her greatest downfall? Elaine steals the wallet, not knowing her sister had laced the money, and she dies.”

“Very Shakespearian,” Enjolras pointed out. “I like it. Her motive became her victim. Don’t know that it holds up, however.”

“We need to find her,” Grantaire stated, and Enjolras nodded in agreement.

OoOoO

Three hours later, they were both slumped in fatigue in front of Enjolras’ computer.

When Combeferre looked at Enjolras questioningly, he groaned. “Do you know how many Elaines and Olivias are related? Do you, Combeferre? In this country? Four thousand of them.”

“Only seven hundred have dark hair, though,” Grantaire added, rubbing his eyes. 

“Add the foster care filter for Elaine,” Combeferre reminded them. “Also, you are working from the hunch that Elaine and Olivia are real, and Vachel didn’t just make them up.”

“But the third victim’s name—“

“—is very common,” he said, sitting down in his chair, folding his hands behind his head and staring across the room, looking for Eponine. 

“Apply a filter than eliminates any Elaine in the phone book,” Grantaire said. “That guy we talked to on the phone said she was always losing her phone, remember?”

Enjolras’ fingers hit the keys rapidly, then applied another filter. “No permanent residence over two years in duration. She’s been in and out of crack dens.”

“Add missing persons report,” Combeferre threw in. “Just in case her foster family or Olivia filed one.”

“Down to a hundred,” Grantaire reported, pressing his shoulder against Enjolras’. “Can you pull the victim’s picture up in another tab, Apollo?”

“You haven’t called me that in at least an hour,” Enjolras replied, rolling his eyes and then doing what Grantaire had asked. “Okay, we’ll use facial recognition.”

The program was opened up, and the two of them thumbed through the pictures, looking at a series of pale women with dark, curly hair. Most of the available images were mug shots, and Grantaire sighed. 

“If I ever get arrested, I’ll grin in my mug shot. Make it interesting for someone else to look at, you know?”

“Didn’t you have a fake criminal record when you went undercover?”

“Sure, but I wasn’t allowed to grin. Then I’d look like an addict and not a dealer, and someone would get suspicious.”

“Friendly drug dealer,” Enjolras remarked. “Heroine with a smile.”

“Or, alternatively, a very scary dentist.”

“I wouldn’t let you anywhere near my teeth.” He paused, looking absently at the screen. “Not with a sharp tool.”

Combeferre sighed, pulling out a pad of paper. Using a ruler, he arranged a t-chart, topping each column with the labels ‘Enjolras’ and ‘Grantaire’. He placed a tick under Enjolras name. When Courfeyrac looked over questioningly, Combeferre labelled it ‘Comments Relating to Sexual Tension.’

“I’m not a teeth guy, anyway,” Grantaire replied, and Courfeyrac placed a tick under Grantaire’s name. 

“No, you’d be an artist, if you weren’t a cop.”

“I’d need a good model.”

Courfeyrac triumphantly added to Grantaire’s side, then his face fell significantly when Jehan passed by homicide, waving at Grantaire briefly. 

“I’m useless,” Courfeyrac said. “I could seduce anyone. Except him. Who do I fall for, Combeferre? Him. Why can’t I have your subtle, librarian charm?” He tapped Combeferre’s cheek. “So smooth. Like the Don Juan of nerds.”

“Have you tried buying him flowers?”

“No. Jehan thinks flowers have meaning, so I’d have to pick the right ones, and that’s hard. Like, roses are too plain and also too bold, but some flowers have meaning in Victorian flower language but different meanings in Greek and Roman mythology, you know?”

“You’ve really thought about this, huh?” Combeferre asked.

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac said, looking blankly past their division and into the rest of the precinct, as if he could find Jehan in the throngs of people.

Before he got the opportunity to mope poetically about his rejection, a bewildered looking Marius stumbled into Homicide, a grin spread across his face. Grantaire grinned back at him, elbowing Enjolras to get his attention, gesturing at Marius.

“What am I looking at?” Enjolras asked.

“Marius,” Grantaire replied.

“What, is he having an allergic reaction?”

“Why would you think that?”

“His face is all blotchy—“

“—no, he’s in love. Can’t you see it?”

In all honesty, Enjolras’ eyes hadn’t drifted far from the smirk on Grantaire’s face.

“Can I talk about my feelings?” Marius asked the group of them. “I have a lot of feelings.”

“No. We don’t have time for feelings. We’re solving a murder,” Enjolras said flatly.

“Tell all,” Grantaire said teasingly. 

Marius pulled up a chair to Enjolras’ desk, crowding in front of the two of them with urgency. “She—“ he dropped his voice to a whisper, “—kissed me!”

“Was it in the name of the investigation?” Enjolras asked.

“Well, no,” Marius said, blushing furiously. Grantaire laughed. 

“It’s okay, Marius. We are very happy for you, aren’t we, Apollo?”

Enjolras frowned intently, focusing on his hands. “Apollo,” he muttered.

“Yeah, I call you that—are you okay?” Grantaire asked. “Did Marius’ feelings break you?”

“Combeferre?” Marius asked. “Is Enjolras okay? Was this my fault?”

“Mm,” Combeferre said. “He’s thinking, give him a second. He’s about to have a break through.”

“About the case?” Grantaire asked. When Enjolras remained comatose, Grantaire sighed and leaned across him, scrolling through the photos. He completed about fifty out of the remaining hundred and had flagged several of them as possible hits when Enjolras stirred, brushing Grantaire out of the way.

“Sorry,” Enjolras said. 

“Did you have a dramatic revelation?”

“No, just remembered mythology, that’s all,” Enjolras said. 

“Well, that was awfully dramatic for just remembering—“

“—it’s been a long day.” He sat upright. “There! That looks like Elaine.”

“Shit,” Grantaire said, squinting at the screen. “Yeah, there’s no one else that could be.”

The dark haired woman gazed out at them from the screen, young and addicted to whatever was cheapest and dirtiest, if the glaze in her eyes indicated anything. She was undoubtedly the woman they had found beneath the bridge, although she looked less rested in her mug shot. 

“Elaine Hubert,” Grantaire read aloud, and Enjolras jotted it down. 

“Known relatives—one Olivia Hubert,” Enjolras read out, exhaling with satisfaction. 

“Who is married,” Grantaire continued excitedly, “to a—name not listed. Surname changed from maiden name to—name not listed. Damn. So close.”

Enjolras allowed his head to bounce against his desk.

“Go home,” Combeferre stated. “Both of you are exhausted. Bring the marriage files from whatever year she was married in—“

“—1994—“

“—with you,” Combeferre said. “Or just the surnames beginning with ‘H’. That stuff won’t be entirely digital.”

Grantaire groaned, then asked Enjolras, “Chinese?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras replied, shrugging dejectedly. “Not here, though. The air conditioning is awful. Even your curls are drooping.”  
Grantaire patted his head self-consciously, then nodded, gathering the various papers.

“You aren’t exactly organising them—“ Enjolras began.

“—life is unorganised—“

“—justice isn’t—“

“—there’s nothing in here, just our notes. Print the picture of Olivia, please,” Grantaire said, chewing absent mindedly on the end of a pencil, then sticking it and a pen through a curl. When Enjolras shot him a look, his only explanation was, “This is how I smuggle out office supplies.”

“No one’s going to want it now that you’ve stuck it in your mouth.”

“On the contrary, that raises the value,” Grantaire teased. 

Enjolras rolled his eyes, reaching over Grantaire to flick on his printer, adding the picture to the top of the pile of files Grantaire had collected. 

“Will the city archives have all the marriage stuff?” Enjolras asked, and Combeferre nodded. 

“Flash your badge and we’ll get it, no problem,” Grantaire said, smirking. Enjolras grumbled, poking the loose hanging badge around Grantaire’s neck.

“Lazy,” he muttered.

“Grumpy,” Grantaire pointed out, passing Enjolras the files to organise on the way to the car. Enjolras was wearing the past few days very visibly on his face, the fatigue etched deeply under his eyes and in the corners of his mouth. 

Had Grantaire been a gentleman, he might have held Enjolras’ elbow, making sure he didn’t tip over. He might have opened the door for Enjolras, or have let him stay in the car when they arrived at city hall—instead, he decided to rub Enjolras’ arm as opposed to jabbing him in the ribs when they reached Enjolras’ apartment, and Grantaire mentally awarded himself. He was hardly the ideal partner, after all.

“We’re at my place?” Enjolras grumbled. “The air conditioner is broken. Too cold.”

“That’s fine,” Grantaire said. “We’ll freeze in companionable silence.”

“You’re terribly articulate for a Narc,” Enjolras said.

“It happens when you switch to Homicide.”

“Forever, then?”

“Well, I’d like to retire at some point. Maybe around seventy, or so.”

“Why seventy?” Enjolras asked him, tiredly turning over to face him. Bleary blue eyes met Grantaire’s darker ones, and Grantaire struggled not to reach forward. To aid his self-control, he tucked his hands under his legs and leaned back against the car window, trying not to focus on the parted pink lips. The edge of white teeth was visible underneath, and Grantaire chewed the inside of his lip. Collarbone was also visible, just past the neck of Enjolras’ shirt, and sweat glistened on his forehead. His back and armpits were also visibly damp, to the point his shirt clung to his body, and Grantaire tried reciting the theme song of an eighties sit com to keep in control.

“Grantaire?”

“Mm?”

“Why seventy?”

“Uh—seventy what?”

“You said—“

“—oh, uh, seventy is a good number,” Grantaire said.

“Are you tired, too?”

“Exhausted.”

“You can borrow my bed, if you like.” 

“Um, no, I—just a—need some fresh air,” Grantaire said, stepping out of the car and into the scorching heat. “Damn, it’s hot, huh?” he called to Enjolras, who reluctantly climbed out of the car, helping Grantaire grab the four boxes of files of people who surnames had changed from ‘H’ to something else. 

“Scorching,” Enjolras replied, wiping his brow, grateful to cross into his apartment building, engulfed in the cold air. Grantaire shuffled after him, and within two minutes they were in the pocket of winter that was Enjolras’ apartment.

“Jesus, it really broke, huh?” Grantaire said, looking around. “Open a window, before your fruit bowl gets a layer of frost on it.” 

“It’s okay, I put it in the fridge,” Enjolras said. 

Grantaire paused, then asked: “You don’t see the flaw in that logic?”

Enjolras frowned, then tossed Grantaire the phone, and Grantaire flipped through the ‘Previous Calls’ section, snickering. “Just order the food,” Enjolras said, rolling his eyes.

“Do you call anyone but Combeferre and the Chinese food place?”

“Feuilly,” he said, shrugging. 

“Are you sure you two aren’t…” Grantaire made several gestures with his hands.

“Not my type.”

“Too much of a pulse?”

“Something like that,” he replied, flopping down on the couch, opening a case box.

“Do you want to borrow my sweater?” Grantaire asked, regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth, trying to find an excuse for the phrase. “You—have goose bumps.”

“I,” Enjolras’ face flushed lightly, but he quickly schooled it. “I have a long sleeved shirt, it’s okay.”

Grantaire wanted to protest, but there were plenty of things he wanted to do; like protest the amount of layers Enjolras liked to wear, protest the way sweat still hung on the nape of his neck, protest the way he stretched out across the couch, baring his neck to the ceiling. Grantaire wanted to get a petition signed that forbade Enjolras from being so gorgeous but so unattainable, so eloquent but socially awkward, so interesting but so isolated. He wanted to drink in every flaw, to let it lift him high and slam him down again, like any good score ought to do. 

Enjolras slightly crooked eyebrow did not do that, however, nor did his scathing remarks or occasionally cold attitude. Human beings are not drugs, however close to rapture they could bring him, and Enjolras was no exception. Enjolras was all the more a god for being alive, for laughing, for being petty and tired and sweating, stretched out over his couch and not even vaguely resembling someone who should be fed grapes from a vine. Nonetheless, Grantaire found repose in sitting down next to him, letting their knees brush. 

Enjolras smiled, still staring up at the ceiling, closing his eyes in a blink that could have turned into sleep, had Grantaire not been right next to him. 

“I’m an ass, you know,” Enjolras said. 

“I know.”

“So are you.”

Grantaire smiled, looking up at the ceiling, analysing the patterns in the staccato. “I know.” After a moment, he asked, “Alright   
with that?”

Enjolras hummed, then turned his head to face Grantaire. He waited, briefly, for Grantaire to look at him, but Grantaire only sat up slightly, watching Enjolras with confusion in his eyes. As though trying to recall an instructional manual, Enjolras nervously looked for Grantaire’s hands, and once he found one resting on Grantaire’s lap, he inserted his smaller fingers between Grantaire’s. Step one. He smiled nervously, then pressed their foreheads together, bumping his nose against Grantaire’s. Step two. 

Before Enjolras could tighten and twist away, Grantaire placed a broad hand on the back of Enjolras’ head, playing with his curls. Every touch was a question. He could feel their heartbeats pounding out to a beat that was far from even, and his nerves danced as though they had been let loose from his skin, anxious and electric. 

Inhaling deeply, Enjolras stuck his jaw out, pressing their lips together. Step three.

It was far from perfect. At first, their teeth rubbed, and their lips were clumsy, loosely scattering gestures of affection against one another. Enjolras began to pull away, an apology on his tongue, but Grantaire pulled him closer and stole it with a swipe of his own. It was impossible to stay focused, to not lose himself in the taste of Grantaire and to drift away when stubble rubbed gently against his own jaw. Grantaire shifted his hand to Enjolras’ neck, and Enjolras felt his heart pound against his ribs, begging to escape. 

All the while, Enjolras gripped Grantaire’s hand as if it was more reliable than the couch he was sitting on, as if in any second the world might fall away. He traced every alcove in Grantaire’s mouth, memorised every inch. 

Grantaire drank him in like champagne, like sunlight, like every excellent sensation in the world, but none could contrast the feeling of Enjolras pressing his free hand to Grantaire’s chest. A solid organ hammered out a beat that was uneven and excited, singing under bone and sinew, and Enjolras dug his nails in, as though he wanted to touch it. Grantaire wondered if it would be fair to himself to let Enjolras know he could have it, despite the crucial part it played in keeping him alive.   
It’s okay, he decided, letting the last evening light filter through the glass of the window, submerging the room in shadow, Enjolras’ breath chasing his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, so, may be a little bit of smut at the beginning of the next chapter? Not too much, though, I still have to squeeze some plot in there. Man, it was killing me not to have them together! :) Don't worry, more is still coming--another 2 chapters! Busy semester for me, but I should have it up soon.
> 
> Special thanks to barricadestation, as always! And for all your lovely kudos and comments!


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

At first, Grantaire felt as though all of him was too heavy—he felt weighted by too large hands, his palms too rough to rub against Enjolras’ skin, his fingers too clumsy. Enough so that he stopped, pulling his hand back from Enjolras’ face, until Enjolras turned into it, kissing the bridge between his thumb and his palm, then the space between his palm and his wrist.

Grantaire felt his breath catch in his chest, his heart beating so fast it almost hurt, his eyes locked with Enjolras’ blue gaze, wishing nature had enough shades of blue to equate his eyes to something more majestic than skies and oceans. He wished he could write poetry about the taste of supple pink lips, wished he could tell Enjolras that he could taste the speeches on his tongue. 

Enjolras leaned forward again, half crawling onto Grantaire’s lap, and Grantaire ran a hand up under Enjolras’ shirt, eliciting a light shudder. Both of their nerves were racing, and Enjolras felt his blood flow getting redirected as Grantaire pulled him in for another kiss. 

Grantaire could feel his pants growing uncomfortably tight with every one of Enjolras’ moves. Enjolras’ tongue had continued to dance with his own, the blond man rocking back and forth on his lap, moaning quietly into his mouth when Grantaire pulled them flush together.

When Enjolras pulled back, Grantaire planted a gentle kiss against Enjolras’ collarbone, and then again in the hollow just above it, marking pale skin. He continued upwards until he reached the crook of Enjolras neck, which earned him a throaty noise as he whispered sweet nothings against smooth skin. Enjolras smelled like soap, faint laundry detergent and sweet skin, the day having brought out his own unique scent. Grantaire bumped his nose against Enjolras’ neck and then smiled into an open kiss, pressed halfway up the strong neck. 

He murmured, “I adore you,” behind Enjolras ear, which Enjolras responded to with a slightly choked noise. 

Before Grantaire could say much else, he found both of them wrapped up in Enjolras’ hand. His voice almost didn’t belong to him, or the moan that escaped his lips. Quickly, he found himself on his back as Enjolras pulled off both of their jeans, and Grantaire pulled off Enjolras’ shirt, leaning up to kiss the freshly exposed skin. Goosebumps rose up in response to his touch, and Grantaire opened his mouth, leaving hot and wet marks against the smooth flesh, Enjolras groaning as he straddled Grantaire’s hips, both of their boxers still present.

 

“Do you have lube?” Grantaire asked, and a look of panic crossed Enjolras’ face. “Or, any olive oil?”

Enjolras visibly relaxed. “That I do have.”

“Extra virgin?”

“Really?” Enjolras asked, shooting Grantaire a look, climbing off of him then darting to the kitchen, returning with the bottle. 

“Come here,” Grantaire said, a smile on his lips, and Enjolras crossed the room to bury his face in the side of Grantaire’s neck. 

Their mouths met again in a moment of equal reverence, appreciating every touch, brushing against infinity with their fingertips. All things melted into ecstasy, every motion coupled with a gasp or a moan. When Grantaire slipped inside him, Enjolras’ mouth fell open, panting quietly, then pressing his forehead against Grantaire’s. 

His hand slipped up into Grantaire’s hair, tugging on it with every movement. Grantaire pressed his hands to every available inch of Enjolras’ skin, every crevice and soft and rough area, shutting his eyes to map it out in his mind for a few seconds. 

Enjolras reached for Grantaire’s hand again, clasping their hands tightly before releasing it. Their eyelashes mingled as they kissed again, only to find themselves at peak and then falling again.

A stripe of sweat dripped down Grantaire’s back, and they both found themselves breathing heavily, finally catching up with their   
bodies. Enjolras kissed Grantaire again, lifting his head to allow their lips to meet briefly.

“I—“ 

“—stay,” Enjolras commanded, and Grantaire’s grin almost split his face in half.

“Couldn’t pay me to leave,” Grantaire replied. 

Enjolras kissed the bridge of Grantaire’s nose, then stood. 

“Where are you going?” Grantaire asked.

“Shower,” was his answer.

“Oh.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Aren’t you coming?”

Grantaire followed him eagerly. Five minutes later, his hands were buried in shampoo-covered blond hair, resisting the urge to kiss it when Enjolras pressed his forehead against Grantaire’s chest. Enjolras wasn’t good with words, but Grantaire had always known that. Instead, he took the light kisses and the heavy way he leaned on Grantaire as answers for all the things left unsaid,   
and found they fit quite well.

When Enjolras did speak, it was to murmur, “It was you, you know.”

“I figured it out just in time,” Grantaire replied, smiling teasingly as he rubbed Enjolras’ scalp.

“Good detective work.”

“I’ve—well—for quite a long time…”

“Me too.”

“Really?”

“Mm,” was his only reply.

Grantaire wasn’t entirely sure he believed Enjolras until he flopped down on Enjolras’ bed, wearing only a towel, resting his head on the far pillow. For a moment, he stared only at Enjolras, then shutting his eyes as he felt the soft fabric underneath him. He stretched out, then pulled himself under the covers, missing the mild expression of fear on Enjolras’ face. Grantaire buried his face in the pillow, grumbling with fatigue.

“We didn’t order Chinese,” Enjolras said. “Do you want me to do that?”

Grantaire was far too enamoured to pay attention to anything besides Enjolras’ bed. He rolled over, finally, to smile up at Enjolras, but something caught his eye. 

“Hey, there’s something red—“ Grantaire said, reaching under Enjolras’ pillow, then stopping abruptly when his fingers wrapped around familiar cloth. Enjolras sat down on the far edge of the bed, guiltily avoiding Grantaire’s gaze as he pulled out his old hoodie, just as threadbare and tired as it had been the day Grantaire had loaned it to Enjolras. 

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Finally, Enjolras broke the silence with, “I’m so sorry, I—“

“—I’m sorry—“

“—I understand if you don’t feel the same, I just—I mean, it was inappropriate, and a complete violation of your privacy and trust, and I understand—“

“—no, Apollo, I’m sorry,” Grantaire laughed. “I should have loaned you a nicer hoodie.”

With that, Enjolras climbed under the covers, hiding himself in Grantaire’s embrace, lowering his head into the crook of Grantaire’s neck. After half an hour of sharing exhales and drifting into a state of almost sleep, Enjolras muttered, “We still have to work.”

Grantaire nodded. “Yeah,” he said, his voice gravelly from disuse. “And to eat.”

“I’m starving.”

“I know, I can feel your stomach growling.”

“You didn’t say anything—“

“—I thought you might have a parasite,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras swatted the back of his head.

Enjolras passed Grantaire a phone, and he dialled while Enjolras sat up, tracing patterns on Enjolras’ back as he placed the order. “Extra sweet and sour,” Enjolras reminded him, and Grantaire repeated the instruction, placing open mouth kisses against Enjolras’ spine. Enjolras leaned back into him further, then turned over to entwine their bodies again. When Grantaire hung up,   
he smiled at Enjolras again.

“What happened to work?” he teased.

“One minute,” Enjolras promised, running a finger down the side of Grantaire’s face. “I just need one minute.”

“To do what?”

Enjolras pressed a kiss to Grantaire’s temple in response, and Grantaire almost blushed at the concept of Enjolras being   
affectionate. He placed a broad hand on Enjolras’ side, his fingers dancing over the skin until their lips met, and then they went still. Their lips fumbled less, and met in a neat synchronisation—they forgot that they were attached to faces, and performed ballet to the entertainment of their other senses. 

Until, of course, their minute elapsed, and Enjolras pulled back dramatically, much to Grantaire’s protest. He attempted to sit up to follow Enjolras’ mouth, but Enjolras’ mouth was busy spitting out exclamations.

“Holy shit,” Enjolras breathed. “I figured it out.”

“What?” Grantaire asked.

“She married rich, she’s a dyed blonde and she has a lesbian lover. Forget that is the description of the suspect—who else could   
that be?”

“Holy shit,” Grantaire echoed.

Enjolras let out a stream of curses that made Grantaire proud, gripping his head. “We had her. We had her in the goddamn morgue before the other victims died.”

“Abelard,” he groaned. “Short nails, dyed blonde—rich husband. We didn’t think it was her. We thought, no, it’s too random, she couldn’t have been at the bank—but how would her husband not recognise her? When he was her first victim?”

“Dyed hair—could have been in front of her face. Also, when we saw her, she had a good deal of make up on that she had cried off, remember? She could have easily changed her appearance.”

“We’re assuming, right now. We don’t have much proof, until we find the certificate that said she changed her name—“ Grantaire sat up, and Enjolras rolled out of bed, hurriedly tugging on boxers and then the closest available jeans, which just so happened to be Grantaire’s. Grantaire laughed at how loosely they hung around Enjolras’ waist, and then pulled on his own boxers and followed the blond into the living room.

They sat on the couch, which Grantaire half expected Enjolras to complain about, although he said nothing, his fingers fumbling through the files until he found the ‘A’ section, reciting the alphabet out loud until he ripped out the folder labelled ‘Abelard’. Grantaire took it from him, and the two swore in relief when they opened it and found that one Olivia Hubert had changed her name to Olivia Abelard after her marriage.

“We did it,” Enjolras crowed. “We did it!”

“Timeline,” Grantaire said hurriedly. “We need to make a timeline.”

“Okay,” Enjolras said, taking a deep breath. “Olivia Abelard agrees to stay with her lover, Yvonne Vachel, overnight. They die her hair, and then Olivia poisons Yvonne by dispersing the poison lightly on her pillow, then drives Yvonne to the hospital just in time. Olivia uses Yvonne’s employee card and uniform, and manages to work as Yvonne without the other employees noticing her. She applies the poison to three patrons’ bills.”

“Her husband’s bill must have been the last one she applied it to,” Grantaire said, leaning back against the couch. “Because we shut down the bank after he dropped dead.”

“Right!” Enjolras declared. “So she applied poison to three patrons’ bills, one of whom was Grosvenor, the other an unknown person from who Elaine stole the money, and then finally, her husband. So even though he was the first to die, he was the last person she targeted.”

Grantaire nodded. “As soon as he collapsed, everyone ran forward to see if he was okay. Because the camera wasn’t focused on the tellers, all we saw was them disappear from the frame—in all the panic, she got away. We assumed all the tellers had remained at the crime scene, but she had gotten away. Everyone else was in too much of a panic to notice. From there, she must have gone home, where she changed and waited for the call from the police. When it came, she played the part of the heart-broken wife, and we bought it.”

Enjolras grabbed his cellphone, dialling quickly. When Combeferre picked up, Enjolras spoke in fast, clipped tones. “Are you still at the precinct. Put out an arrest warrant for Olivia Abelard.” After a short pause, Enjolras added, “No, I’m not shitting you.”

OoOoO

Olivia Abelard sat at the metal table, her legs crossed and her hands folded neatly. She wore a neutral expression, but had not had time to straighten her hair before she left. It had begun to curl again, and under the fluorescent lights, the resemblance between her and Elaine was easier to spot. 

Enjolras and Grantaire stood behind the glass—or, rather, Grantaire leaned on it and Enjolras stood rigidly, his hands crossed over his chest. 

“Nothing,” Enjolras muttered, and Grantaire shook his head.

“The techs have evidence from her house, but if she gets a good enough lawyer, it will all be circumstantial,” Grantaire said,   
scratching at the back of his head. “We need a confession. Where’s her lawyer?”

“She doesn’t want one,” he said, fatigue creeping into his voice.

“Makes sense,” Combeferre said, opening the door, clipboard in hand. “She resents the system. A lawyer is just a symbol of that.   
Aside from that, she’s smart. She realises where we stand, and that she has the upper hand. May I try, if you don’t mind?”

“By all means,” Enjolras said, gesturing at the stoic woman, who had moved very little since she had entered the interrogation   
room.

Combeferre opened the door and found himself face to face with Eponine, who smiled at him and then slipped past him,   
standing in between Enjolras and Grantaire. Combeferre swallowed, then turned and shut the door. Seconds later, they saw him reappear on the other side of the glass. 

“Madame Abelard, I am Detective Combeferre, with the—“

“—can I get a glass of water?” she asked, coughing.

“Of course,” Combeferre said, “in just a moment. If you could tell me where you were, again, on the day of your husband’s death?”

Olivia’s lips tightened, and she stared determinedly at the floor.

After three minutes of her silence, Eponine sighed, strode out of the room and knocked on the interrogation room door, then gestured for Combeferre to leave. Combeferre’s brow furrowed, but he left, letting Eponine take his place. 

She crossed her legs, mimicking Olivia’s pose, and then sighed.

“Thank you for waiting, Mm. Abelard. I’m sorry for the delay,” Eponine said, opening her notebook at clicking her pen open, staring down Olivia over the top of it. 

Olivia glanced up at Eponine, smirking. “What, I’m supposed to talk to you? Because we’re both women? Our shared ovaries must make us identical?” Olivia leaned forward, sarcasm evident in her voice, “Tell me all your secrets, it’s a slumber party.”

“No. You’ll tell me everything because you are a killer and I catch killers. It’s very simple.”

“Is it, now?” Olivia laughed. “I make a good deal more money than you.”

“You married a good deal more money than me,” Eponine said. 

“You don’t think I loved my husband?”

“I don’t think you’ve ever loved anyone. Except your sister, of course. Your motives were fairly simple.”

“Were they?”

“Of course. You turn eighteen, leave home, and can’t support her. She runs away from her foster family and,” Eponine flutters her hands. “Gone. A drug addict. All because you couldn’t scrape a pay check above minimum wage together.”

“Bitch.”

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” Eponine said. “Then you married—“ Eponine flipped to an empty page on her notebook, apparently reading it, “—Francois. But, too little, too late. So you take a lover, because while your wallet may be full, your heart sure isn’t, is it? Yvonne Vachel. She’ll turn on you, you know. She’s already begun to. Soon enough she’ll realise you never loved her, and then she’ll sing a song so sweet no one will give a damn what your story is.”

“Then why talk to me at all?” Olivia asked.

“Because I care,” Eponine said. “Because aconite is an unusual poison to use. Because you killed randomly, and efficiently. You could have run, could have left the country—and yet, you’re still here. So I want to know why.”

“If what you say is true, and I have hurt all these people, then no one will care why. They will just want to put me where they can’t look at me.”

“Like the government did with your sister?”

Olivia lapsed briefly into silence, but shot Eponine an appreciative look. “You’re good, aren’t you? Pressing buttons. I can only assume you’ll offer me something, for my confession?”

“Fame,” Eponine said. “France’s female serial killer. They’ll eat you up. The government will be forced to stare long and hard at the mistakes of its system, if it can produce something as screwed up as you.”

“Now you get it,” Olivia said quietly. “The thing is, I haven’t lost everything. I’m rich. Your evidence can be argued away with enough checks, if I write them correctly. And then I can find my sister.” She paused, coughing. “Can I get a damn drink?”

“Elaine?” Eponine asked, frowning. She turned back towards the glass, shooting the group of men a confused glance. “I—I can show you her, if you like.”

“What?”

Eponine tapped on the glass, and behind it, Combeferre scurried away. “I’ll go get the file,” he said, dashing out of the room and sprinting into Homicide, grabbing the file from the top of Enjolras’ desk, then running back to the interrogation room, winded. He straightened his posture, tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear, adjusted his glasses and then caught his breath before knocking on the door. When Eponine opened it, he passed her the file with a nod and a sad smile.

“Thanks,” was her curt reply, and she passed the file to Olivia, shutting the door.

Olivia opened it quickly, flipping through useless information until she found the photo of Elaine’s face, lying cold and unmoving on an autopsy table. Olivia’s lips pinched tightly together, and she weaved her fingers together, pressing them over her mouth to stop them from shaking. As soon as they touched her mouth, the shaking spread, until all that was left of Olivia Abelard quivered before Eponine, holding her breath down in her lungs. 

No sobs escaped her, but a single, choked word did: “Aconite.”

“Yes.”

“That—“ Olivia broke off, dipping her head and holding her clenched hands over her forehead.

“She was a drug addict,” Eponine said, speaking quietly. “We didn’t release her death in the news. She didn’t fit your pattern. We believe she stole the wallet of whoever you gave the poisoned money to. We had no idea who she was until Vachel mentioned you had a sister. Then we put some of it together.”

Olivia took a halting breath, looking up at Eponine with tears in her eyes. “You have to give her a funeral. A nice one. With lots of flowers. She used to—“ Olivia broke off, wiping her eyes. “I killed them. I killed all of those bastards. I bought the poison on the black market. The plan was I’d kill Francois, then I’d take all of his money and find—find—“

“Why not just divorce him?”

“Prenup,” she wore a masochistic smile on her face, still shaking. “I’d get nothing.”

“Then why kill the other two men?”

“To make it look like a serial killer, or a terrorist, or something like that,” she said slowly. “A drug dealer and a car salesman were who I picked. Instead—“ her voice cracked, “—I got a drug dealer and a drug addict. Funny, that.” Her eyes brimmed over. “Funny. But it doesn’t make a damn difference, you know?” she said, rolling up her sleeves. “Because I cleaned my house. Cleaned it top to bottom. They won’t find any aconite. But it’s so damn hot,” she said, wiping her eyes with her freshly exposed arm. “That the container melted, when I left it outside. And it dripped.”

Eponine stood up abruptly, reaching for her cell phone. “I’ll call for an ambulance—“

“—don’t,” Olivia muttered, smiling. “This is the gradient I used on Yvonne. Slow acting. They can live, if you take them to the hospital in three hours or less. But it’s been—“ she looked at her watch, “—four.” She coughed again, and this time the cough began to resemble a choking noise, “Now,” foam escaped her blue lips, “could I please get a glass of water?”

With that, Olivia Abelard collapsed on the interrogation room table. 

Combeferre ran in the room, grabbing Eponine before she could lunge forward. Enjolras and Grantaire followed, with Enjolras dialling for an ambulance and Grantaire shouting at the top of his lungs. 

The Precinct swirled around them, until Grantaire’s shouting caught someone’s attention, and then a rush of people surrounded them. The four of them were swallowed in the crowd, pushed back into the hallway and then the wall as people surged forward, some with gloves on. 

There were four or five attempts to revive Olivia before the paramedics arrived, but she remained still. 

When the crowd parted, Enjolras could see she was just as unmoving as she had been when she collapsed—her head pressed against the table, and her hair spread out around her, now just as curly as her sister’s. 

Aside from her clothes, they could have been the same person—blue lips, blue arms, blue fingertips, same facial expression. Death had created perfect symmetry.

Enjolras grabbed Grantaire’s arm as the crowd parted to let Cosette through, and the four of them were further pressed against the wall. Grantaire glanced briefly at Enjolras, then back at the interrogation room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the delay on this one! I had trouble writing it, so I hope it doesn't seemed forced or anything. Pretty dramatic ending, I'll admit, but I felt this fic needed a climax. One more chapter, everyone! Thank you for sticking through this with me, and thank you for all your lovely comments and kudos!


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten  
Epilogue

Seven hours later, they sat in Cosette’s office, staring at the exhausted looking blonde over her large desk.

“This is—“ she shook her hands, then drew a deep breath. “—not your fault, and not our fault. She showed little to no symptoms on the tape.”

“I’m sorry, nonetheless,” Grantaire said. 

“Me too,” Enjolras stated.

“Well,” Cosette said, smiling tiredly, “four deaths in one case, gentlemen. This partnership has been…interesting, to say the least. Effective, though. I doubt any other detectives in our precinct could have solved it.”

“Combeferre and Eponine—“ Enjolras began, but Cosette waved him off. 

“—I’m aware you had help, but I won’t take back my original statement. You were, overall, excellent. Well done. Thank you for working with each other.”

“Thank you?” Grantaire asked, tilting his head. “What, it’s over now?”

“I assumed you wanted to request a new partner,” Cosette said, looking between Enjolras and Grantaire. “Is that not why the two of you came into my office together? To request new partners?”

Enjolras smiled softly. “Go on, Grantaire. Quit being a coward.”

“Grantaire?” Cosette asked.

“I—“ Grantaire began, chewing his lip, “—wanted to know if I could get a new desk. One without gum locking the bottom drawer together, if that’s alright.”

“And?” Enjolras prompted.

“And a name plate that says Homicide,” Grantaire added.

“Demanding,” Cosette said sarcastically, and then smiled. “Happy to have you, Grantaire.”

Grantaire nodded, and then the two of them left her office, nearly bumping into Marius, who was rushing in with a coffee and a   
grin on his face.

“Hey!” Marius chirped, moving his arms too quickly and knocking coffee onto his shirt. “Damn,” he hissed, looking down at   
himself.

“Do you want…?” Enjolras began to offer, but Marius shook his head, grinning.

“It’s okay, I have another shirt!” he said, then disappeared into Cosette’s office.

“Another shirt in there?” Enjolras asked, wrinkling his brow.

Grantaire laughed. “I’m sure you can crack the code, master detective.”

“I’m aware they are having sex,” Enjolras stated, “I was just wondering why they having it in Cosette’s office.”

“The real question is, what chair were they using?” Grantaire asked, and Enjolras looked at him in horror. “Don’t worry Apollo, I’m   
sure you didn’t get any heterosexual on you.”

Enjolras elbowed Grantaire, and Courfeyrac beamed at the two of them as they entered the room. Combeferre followed his gaze   
with confusion, and then frowned.

“Anything you want to tell me?” he asked, and Grantaire glanced nervously at Enjolras, who gave Combeferre a flat stare in response.

“Anything you want to tell me?” Enjolras asked. 

“I suspect we have identical news.”

“You’re sleeping with Grantaire, too?” 

Grantaire and Courfeyrac laughed, although Enjolras continued to give Combeferre an even look.

“When were you going to tell me?” Combeferre asked.

“When were you going to tell me?” Enjolras asked.

“You and Grantaire happened before, uh,” Combeferre flushed, “Eponine and I did.”

“Is that so?” Enjolras asked. 

“You were wearing his jeans,” Combeferre said.

“How do you know they were Grantaire’s jeans?”

“You only own two pairs. Courfeyrac noticed, too.”

“Oh. Well, you weren’t wearing Eponine’s pants.”

“No, I wasn’t,” Combeferre said, his face breaking out into a smile as though the sun had emerged from behind a cloud. “Congratulations.”

Enjolras smiled gently. “You too. Courfeyrac?”

“Hahahahahaha,” Courfeyrac laughed sarcastically, slumping onto his desk. “Ha.”

“Oh, there’s Jehan,” Grantaire said, waving the poet over, Courfeyrac looking up from his arms only briefly, before slumping even further. 

“Grantaire,” Jehan said, smiling at the detective. “Congratulations on your emotional union. Furthermore, thank you for completing it before I grew uncomfortable with your tension and had to send each of you flowers as both of you and embark on a relationship with you two by proxy, making everyone even more uncomfortable.”

Courfeyrac peeked up from between his arms, then propped himself back up again, pretending to be hard at work. He doodled several circles with purpose, then frowned when they didn’t turn out the way he wanted them to, then began again. Combeferre raised an eyebrow at him, then glanced back at Jehan, who was staring down at Courfeyrac with an unreadable expression on his face. 

“Courf?” he asked, and everything about him was gentle and good, aside from the way his too white teeth nibbled on his lip.

Courfeyrac looked up at him, and his expression was dark and moody, aside from the fact he was looking up at Jehan, which for him was like frowning at the sun. 

“Can I talk to you?” Jehan continued, “alone?”

“I suppose,” Courfeyrac said, and the two of them stepped out of homicide.

Grantaire whistled quietly, then looked back at Enjolras. “Think they’re going to have angry sex in the bathroom?”

“No,” Enjolras said, sniffing. “It’ll be the supply room.”

“I don’t want to know,” Eponine said, striding past the two of them.

Grantaire coughed into his sleeve, then shuffled from foot to foot. “Want to…uh, get lunch?”

“I’d lo—like to,” Enjolras corrected, and Grantaire nodded.

“Where to?”

“Thai take away?”

“Are we going to cover all of Asia in one week?”

“That was the plan.”

“Want to eat it at the park?” Grantaire offered.

“Sure,” Enjolras agreed, even though the clouds that morning had been thick with the promise of rain. “Can you grab me   
something and meet me there, though? There was something I needed to pick up.”

“Okay,” Grantaire replied, and the two strode out to their cars as the clouds began to lightly leak water. 

Twenty minutes later, it had begun to pour. Grantaire had thought ahead and brought a large umbrella, rushing out to cover Enjolras with it as he saw him get out of his car. Enjolras hair acted as a sponge, leaving all but his shoulders dry, which bore several drops of water on them. Grantaire brushed them off.

They sat down on a partly covered bench, and Grantaire propped up the umbrella between them, passing Enjolras his lunch.

“Thanks,” Enjolras replied, and then passed Grantaire back a small bouquet of blue hyacinths back.

“Thanks,” Grantaire said, but his grin made Enjolras’ stomach do strangely pleasant things. “You looked up your mythology.”

“I thought only you would appreciate them,” Enjolras shrugged, going back to eating.

“I’ll do my best not to die if you do your best not to throw a discus at me, dear Apollo,” Grantaire grinned, and Enjolras elbowed him lightly.

“I’m not good with romantic confessions.”

“I realise.”

“So,” Enjolras cleared his throat, “I want you to know that I very much enjoy your company.”

Grantaire ran a petal between his fingertips, then leaned over to press a soft kiss to Enjolras’ cheek. When he leaned back, he swore, realising his feet had been outside of the shelter of the umbrella, and the tips of his shoes had gotten soaked through.

“Damn.” He began to peel his shoes off.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Taking off my shoes, so they don’t get wet!”

“In the park? Your feet will get wet—“

“—my feet will dry! My shoes will be ruined!”

“You can’t walk barefoot through the park, that’s dangerous!”

“It’s the park—“

“—Combeferre came here to work a crime scene last week!”

Grantaire grinned. “I’ll have to thank him for cleaning up so well.”

“There might be broken glass!”

“Aww, you care,” Grantaire teased.

“Idiot,” Enjolras retorted, bumping his shoulder against Grantaire’s. After the two of them finished eating, Enjolras stuck his fingers determinedly between Grantaire’s, looking forward at where the crime scene had been not a week before. 

“Your idiot,” Grantaire retorted, although it was too far past that point in their conversation to make sense.

Nonetheless, Enjolras smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who stuck with me through this fic, even though my updates have been sporadic, to say the least. In particular, thank you to barricadestation and everyone else who encouraged me so valiantly on every chapter. You are absolutely the reason I kept writing, even when my life got busy. 
> 
> This fic will be a standalone, although I have other ones in the works that will have a similar style to this one. 
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed this one! :)


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